


Not One of Those Stories

by effulgentcolors



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Older Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Older Man/Younger Woman, One-handed Captain Hook | Killian Jones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-06 04:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13403796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effulgentcolors/pseuds/effulgentcolors
Summary: “Just so you know, this isn’t one of those… bodice ripper things. It’s not a romcom script waiting to happen. It’s not one of those stories. It’s just Emma’s life. And, if you’d asked her just a couple of years ago, she would’ve bet you a decent amount of cash that it wouldn’t have anything resembling a happy ending.Then again Emma has been known to be wrong. ”





	1. Not One of Those Stories (Emma's POV)

**Author's Note:**

> All the admiration and love in the world for @lenfaz and @katie-dub for the bundle of joy that is @csjanuaryjoy!! At 10k this is the longest OS I’ve ever written and it is also one of the stories that has been living in my head for the longest time and I was genuinely excited to get home to it for the last 3 nights. Hope you like the end result at least half as much as I love showing it to you!
> 
> A/N: Ever since Old Hook happened, I’ve been mourning the lack of AU fics with Emma and an older Killian so if a difference of about 15 years bothers you, this might not be your cuppa.

Just so you know, this isn’t one of those… bodice ripper things. It’s not a romcom script waiting to happen. It’s not one of _those_ stories. It’s just Emma’s life. And, if you’d asked her just a couple of years ago, she would’ve bet you a decent amount of cash that it wouldn’t have anything resembling a happy ending.

Then again Emma has been known to be wrong. Years of expecting her parents to come back for her. That time she thought she could pickpocket Mrs Gordon. Pink highlights. That other time she convinced herself she’d made a real friend. Neal. That terrifying week when she believed she was in jail _and_ pregnant. Four flights of stairs on crutches. That one perp who punched harder than she expected. That last slice of pizza last night.

Emma has been known to be wrong. But this one time – she might just be right.

///

This isn’t one of _those_ stories. So she doesn’t (almost) run him over on her way into town. He doesn’t come to her aid when she gets a flat tire. She doesn’t drive into the harbor either. They are not neighbours. And they don’t work together. It seems they don’t frequent the same places or, if they do, not at the same time. They don’t bump into each other and fall in lust-hate on sight. They don’t have friends in common. Not that she has any of those to begin with but Emma’s been living in Storybrooke for a week and she has been working as sheriff Graham’s deputy for four days so she is cutting herself some slack – it’s a new thing she is trying. It feels kinda nice.

Unlike her first meeting with Killian Jones. When she has to get him out of the Rabbit Hole because it’s closing time and he refuses to leave.

///

In the days after she doesn’t contemplate Killian Jones all the time. But she is not busy enough to not spare him the occasional thought. The evils of being a newbie and entrusted with nothing bigger than the occasional pub fight.

Which there wasn’t. Honestly, not having tackled anyone in almost a month, Emma was almost spoiling for a little tussle. Maybe she wanted to show what she was made of. Maybe she wanted people to know she deserved her job. Maybe she was already bored of the small town squabbles.

But Killian Jones took one look at her – she thinks he eventually managed to focus her face and her badge – and looked more disappointed than anything else. He tossed some money on the bar and stumbled his way off his chair, past her and out of the bar.

Now, Emma, being the deputy meant to uphold the peace in this town, followed him. Emma, being a person who can tell when someone is just on that side of too drunk to be trusted to get himself home safely, followed him.

All she accomplished was learning where Killian Jones lives. That and how long it takes him (them) to get there in a slightly zig-zagging pattern. That and how biting the Maine air is right by the sea in the beginning of October. That and how it doesn’t seem to affect Killian Jones and his wide open coat and semi-unbuttoned shirt. That and how his shoulders hunch (permanently or just when he is more than a little pissed) against the cruel winds.

It was one of the single strangest experiences of her life. The guy managed to not utter a single word. On a 25-minute walk. He didn’t ask why she was following him. He didn’t complain. He didn’t apologize for dragging her out in the cold. He didn’t tell her to go to hell. He didn’t hit on her. She was pretty sure he only looked at her once, when he was about to climb the four steps to his tiny cottage.

It was… Well, it nagged at her. It probably wouldn’t have, Emma tells herself, if only she had something else to occupy her.

But she doesn’t. So instead Emma makes a semi-educated guess that a guy whose name came out of the bartender’s mouth with a mix of disdain and old habit would have some of his personal information easily available to a police officer.

48\. He is younger than the +20 on top of her own 32 years that she gave him. She chalks it up to the shaggy beard and greying hair.

1.80. Taller than she assumed.

4 misdemeanors. Less than she would have guessed.

Irish. No relatives. No emergency contact.

She doesn’t want to abuse her power and dig any further.

///

Storybrooke is a pretty small town. A pretty damn small town. And Emma Swan has been living in it for a month now. And she has yet to run into Killian Jones again. It’s not like she actively _wants_ to, she doesn’t see what either of them can get out of a silent non-greeting and him probably not even recognizing (remembering) her. But Emma is a cop and she has been trained to spot out suspicious behavior and not being seen like… ever in a town the size of Alice’s tea party, by the deputy who is out and about patrolling the streets every other day and gets 60% of her meals and 90% of her coffee intake from Granny’s is… suspicious.

“So, Granny, think I’ve met everyone by now?”

“Why, I didn’t peg _you_ as the social butterfly type.”

Emma rolls her eyes at the dry reply and sinks back into her seat behind the old woman’s bar.

“I’m the deputy. I’m supposed to know who’s who around town.”

Granny hums, long and testing, and gives her an unforgivably probing look over the rim of her glasses.

“You know, I’d be suspicious of you going around asking about people… if I didn’t know you have our handsome sheriff working at the desk right across from yours.”

Emma is going to ignore this because she can and because one month has been enough for her to get used to the weird (bothersome) way Storybrooke’s citizens plan out everybody’s life for them.

“I’m not asking about anyone _in particular_. I’m wondering if there’s anyone hiding up in the woods or if a family of five has been living it up in the Bahamas and will be flying back in for Christmas any day now.”

This hum is shorter and less intimidating, more mundane. Granny is used to people asking her about anything they don’t know. Whether it has to do with lasagna or their taxes or jilted lovers.

“Only one who could afford to go to the Bahamas was Mr Gold and he packed his bags a long time ago. Though I doubt he went anywhere as sunny as that.”

The woman puts down the mug she was wiping and nods towards the coffee pot in question. Emma shakes her head and takes out a couple of bills.

“As for the woods. Nobody I know living out there… The coast though. All the way at the edge of town. That’s where Jones’ cabin is.”

Emma’s heart stutters a bit and she tries not to give herself away. It’s little more than the satisfaction of managing to navigate someone exactly where she wants them. Her skills are one of the few things she has and she will let herself fistpump the air as soon as she exits the dinner. For now she decides it’s her turn to hum – distractedly, disinterestedly, as she stands up to put on her jacket.

“Won’t be seeing him around, I’d wager. And you’d be better off for it.”

She tries not to frown at Granny’s hard edges. It’s not that everybody doesn’t know they are there. They are just not usually _this_ visible.

“I already did actually. I got a call from the Rabbit Hole.”

Granny hmmpffs in obvious contempt.

“Thought he’d stopped going into town.”

“It was just the one time,” Emma feels the need to point out.

“Well, as I said, if you are lucky, you won’t see much of that man around.”

This time Emma does frown. She probably shouldn’t, she doesn’t know the first thing about the guy and what she _has_ seen was hardly flattering. But she frowns with the part of herself that was always picked last in gym class, with the part that never got a Valentine or a birthday party invitation, with the part that gathered all the nasty looks every time she made her way through an upscale restaurant – target to catch or perp already in toe and wine stains on her too-tight dress.

She frowns and she turns to go.

“Now, you wait a minute, I’ll pack you a couple of cookies for that sheriff of yours.”

“You give them to him when he stops by.”

///

She does her normal rounds that night. But the next she takes her patrol further out, up the coast, to the part that still counts as Storybrooke but just barely.

It’s a one-story cabin. Unassuming. Unimpressive. Neither threatening, nor welcoming. Neither well-kept, nor crumbling. There’s a light so low she thinks it might be from a fire.

For some reason she stays for a while. To make sure the light grows smaller and smaller and then goes out entirely.

///

We are such creatures of habit and we are silly enough to attribute that same quality to the universe. It makes us feel comfortable – like we know what’s going on, know what to expect. But, of course, the universe is no slave to such womanmade rules and enjoys throwing us the occasional curveball – sometimes just for the hell of it.

 And somehow it has become such an apparent thing – she never runs into Killian Jones – that when she _does,_ Emma almost gasps out loud like a complete and utter idiot in a zombie movie.

And then she mentally slaps herself because _duh,_ no matter how much of a hermit you are, everybody has to shop. The modern day curse of capitalism, commercialism and consumerism.

Under too-bright, fluorescent lighting, buying rice and what Emma guesses are turnips, Killian Jones looks a lot more… well, normal than she has made him up in her head.

She gives herself another mental slap.

Still no solid proof but it is looking more and more like the man is neither a serial killer, nor a freak of any particularly freaky sort. He is tanned yet pale in a way that makes Emma think of someone who spends a lot of time outside and not a lot of time sleeping. His hair is longer than she remembers, less grey than it seemed under the moonlight. He is wearing the most beat-up pair of Converse she has ever seen and a leather jacket that would probably give him a rock&roll vibe, except his shoulders are still slightly hunched and it ruins the effect.

Emma realizes she is staring when he looks up and she adds the bright blue eyes and the deep lines around them in the mental file she has on him.

They are just a few meters away and she does need to get some sugar so Emma decides to _not_ be a weirdo and pushes her cart towards the sugar. And Killian Jones.

“Deputy.”

He gives her a nod of… acknowledgement? Greeting?

Emma is too stunned and he is already wheeling his cart away, one hand in his pocket and his eyes scanning the freezer section to the right.

“You know me?”

He stops and turns back to her, cocking his head to the side in what, she can this time determine quite easily, is confusion.

“We’ve met,” he states simply and his brows furrow and his lips twitch to the left in a small, bitter non-smile.

Her shackles rise unexpectedly fast. Probably because she has been thinking about this elusive man way more than she should.

“I wasn’t sure _you_ remembered,” she fires back.

It’s not necessarily mean. It’s almost defensive. He is not the one that has a reason to question her memory.

“Apologies,” he says without mocking her but without actually apologizing either and she can see that he is already about to move on from her and this unexpected (first) exchange of words.

Then someone else’s cart bumps his and his left hand automatically shoots out to steady it. Or what should have been his left hand but is just his sleeve, tucked around where his wrist must end.

Emma stares like she knows she shouldn’t and knows it’s inevitable that she would.

Killian Jones steadies the cart with his good hand and looks back at her over his shoulder, as if unsure whether to say anything else, nod or...

Emma’s mouth is hanging a little bit, his mental file in a slight disarray. She watches him simply turn his back on her and continue on to the frozen section.

///

It’s not one of _those_ stories. But after that she admittedly thinks more about Killian Jones. And consciously restrains herself from snooping around to find out what exactly his deal is. Wild youth? Veteran? Ex-drug dealer? Current drug dealer?

She is supposed to _know_ things. It’s her job and it’s also when she feels the most in control. Yet learning about Killian Jones is… well, not precisely difficult because she hasn’t _actually_ put her skills to it, but it feels kinda crucial. And yet she can’t bring herself to do it. To invade this total stranger’s privacy. Something she is a professional at doing.

Sometimes she thinks from a purely professional standpoint that if anyone were to disappear, his cabin would probably be the first place they would have to search. Then she thinks it’s definitely the first place the people of Storybrooke would want her to search and she gets irrationally angry. Then she realizes she is being morbid.

Sometimes she wonders if Jones is who she might be in another 15 years or so. It would have seemed more likely before she moved to Storybrooke. But Emma is trying new things these days. She is trying to be more open with people, more sociable. It’s going… questionably well. She has to stretch the truth to say that she is enjoying herself. Then again she _is_ out of practice. And Storybrooke’s population might consist of some of the nosiest people on earth. All in all, not a match made in heaven so far. But she likes the couple living above her well enough and she does get along great with Graham. And Ruby sure is fun when you’ve had enough shots to not be bothered by the absence of a filter.

And then sometimes she considers if the very fact that she has yet to find herself _a person_ in Storybrooke is the reason why she is intrigued by Killian Jones at all. He hardly seems like the kind of man looking to make friends. He seems like the kind of man who has lived long and hard enough to decide that people are not something he needs a lot of (or any at all as the case might be). And, anyway, Emma has not had _a person_ ever before so there’s really no reason this will suddenly change.

And then, only once, she contemplates the idea that his eyes probably look quite nice when he is outside and in the actual sunshine.

///

Chances of her finding that out don’t seem to be improving because the next time she sees Jones is at Storybrooke’s tree lighting ceremony. Which, logically, takes place after the sun has set.

The realization that she recognizes everyone at the square makes Emma feel weirdly claustrophobic, less rather than more comfortable. She tunes out Mayor Mill’s speech easily enough, makes a point of where Granny has positioned her stall and is selling mulled wine, waves at the Nolan’s and eventually makes eye contact with Graham Humbert across the mass of people between them.

Graham Humbert is a very pleasant and _attractive_ young man. Is word for word what Granny said to her no later than the third time Emma ventured into the town’s diner. All with the stress on ‘attractive’ as if Emma didn’t have eyes or didn’t know the definition of the word.

The thing is Graham Humbert _is_ a very pleasant and _attractive_ young man. And he has asked Emma out about three times now. One of those might have been too low-key to count but the other two definitely counted. Emma would know, she had to find a way to sidestep them like a landmine. She is pretty sure it’s against some rule or code to ask out your subordinate and she is definitely sure that it’s unethical as fuck. Also she sees no point in going on a date with a man who, within a week, she wanted to set up with someone else (sue her, she thinks Ruby would manage to make the sheriff let loose a lot better than she’d ever want to even try).

But, slightly awkward as things might get with Graham sometimes, he is still in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this, so she doesn’t mind the eager way he is making his way toward her all that much.

And then she looks away and sees Killian Jones leaning against an out-of-commission lamppost at the very periphery of the square.

Killian Jones is not in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this. And, yet, she knows it’s because he seems to be in a category all his own. A very undefined category where little is known to Emma except for the fact that suddenly she really wants to make Killian Jones let loose.

So Emma forgets that even her more sociable new self doesn’t approach people out of the blue, forgets that Graham is trying to make his way through a sea of people with sloshing cups of wine and bottles of beer in their hands, forgets that she is actually supposed to be keeping an eye out for potential wine and beer-induced trouble and forgets that most everyone in this town seems to either hate or prefer not to think about Killian Jones’s existence.

She forgets and in another couple of minutes she has two sloshing cups of mulled wine of her own and is heading straight for the man who is probably performing his one and only appearance at a social event this year.

It’s only when she is about four steps away from him that Emma realizes she has no idea what exactly it is that she plans to say to him. So instead she picks up her pace and answers the turning of his head and the questioning rise of his eyebrow by thrusting a cup of wine in his sole, blessedly-free hand.

He seems so bewildered that Emma considers explaining the concept of mulled wine to a man that she first encountered slumped over a bar. But Killian seems to get over his confusion enough to take the warm cup from her and Emma sticks her hand in her pocket, leans on the wall beside him and looks out at the people doing some sort of a gig around the tree in quick succession.

“Thanks, deputy... Can’t say I was expecting such a warm welcome.”

Emma glances at him to make sure this is not a stupid pun or an uncalled for innuendo but he seems pretty damn sincere. Baffled but touched.

“Yeah, well, you show up into town so rarely. Thought I’d open with the good stuff.”

She realizes as she says it that the little she knows about Killian Jones points to the possibility that she just handed an alcoholic a brimming cup of wine and called it “the good stuff”. But then he doesn’t seem bothered by it and Emma decides not to make her assumptions based on a single incident.

“I think our fair denizens might disagree with your suggestion that my showing into town is to be encouraged.”

She is, of course, aware of this. But Emma has always liked to think of herself as a non-judgmental person and, as long as he hasn’t broken the law, she realizes Killian Jones is good in her book. So she just shrugs and looks back at the monstrosity of a tree instead of delving into things that hardly seem relevant at the moment.

“Killian Jones.”

Emma frowns for a second before remembering that they have never actually exchanged names and she feels her cheeks heat up at realizing how often his crosses her mind. And this time when she looks at Killian from the corner of her eye there’s something almost mischievous in his expression, _almost_ like a smile. She wonders if he knows her name just as well as she knows his.

“Emma Swan.”

“A pleasure, Swan.”

His words are nothing special but they come out so measured and serious that she is certain of two things – he is genuine and he did just learn her name.

Which in turn means that he hasn’t talked to anyone for the last couple of months because Emma is well aware that she was the “trendiest” topic in Storybrooke for way longer than she is comfortable with.

It makes her want to talk to him even more.

///

An hour later Emma has handled two separate squabbles within the same family unit, made polite and close to excruciating small talk with the town’s shrink, a tipsy kindergarten teacher, a sleezy doctor and even the freaking mayor who seemed just as unhappy having to talk to her as Emma was to reciprocate. An hour later Emma is painfully aware of how painfully small the chance that Killian is still around is and yet…

Her eyes light up in the freedom of being unobserved by anyone before she realizes that she now needs a new opening. So instead of approaching him, she hangs back and observes the man, who looks like he hasn’t moved since she left him by that same unlit lamppost. A couple of boys, who are out way past their bedtime, bump into him in their wild chase after a redheaded girl and Emma watches Killian gaze after them with a hint of longing and move further back, looking around in obvious contemplation of his exit.

She glances at the dancefloor – teeming with people ever since Graham gave the OK for the music to be turned up. It’s not like there’s anyone to bother – everyone is at the town square. Even Killian Jones. And he is about to run away. And Emma is about to bite the bullet.

She knows she has caught him off guard by the way he jumps slightly when she is suddenly just a couple of paces to his left.

“I always thought dancing like that was something we left in the 17th century.”

“I think you’d find Storybrooke… slightly more old-fashioned than most towns.”

Emma nods. He is not wrong there. And Emma knows full well the size of the can of worms she is about to open. Yet, that has nothing to do with how nervous she suddenly feels.

“Looks kinda nice though. Can’t remember the last time I saw people dancing in a way that wasn’t grinding in a night club.”

She feels his gaze on her but keeps hers resolutely on the couples on the improvised dancefloor.

“I didn’t see you take a spin.”

She bites her tongue so she doesn’t go for the immediate response about observing her.

“Maybe I haven’t been asked?”

Emma raises her eyes to his and knows that she is lying and that he knows she is lying as well.

“I find it hard to believe that a stunning young woman has difficulty procuring a partner.”

He says it so gravely that Emma is reminded of a Jane Austen novel she once read. Except she’d hardly be considered ‘young’ by 18th century standards. And she can’t seem to remember anyone ever calling her stunning.

But despite the flattery Killian seems no more willing to offer his services and Emma is running out of subtle ways to nudge him to do so.

“And yet, it looks like I do,” she states – less than subtly, what with the pointed look that comes with it.

He doesn’t look scandalized (it’s not _actually_ the 18th century) as much as extremely confused. And somewhat frustrated. And Emma begins to doubt his reluctance is anything more than him trying to let her down easy.

“I’m certain you would do much better with a younger, more capable partner,” he replies tersely, gesturing slightly with his left forearm.

It’s the push she needs to stand her ground. Which in turn seems to break through his own resolve and Emma is already trying not to grin triumphantly at his heavy sigh and the way he nervously runs his hand through his hair.

“Would you like to dance, Swan?”

“Why, if you insist!” she smirks at him and feels a surge of pride at the almost twitch of his lips that he tries to smother with his narrowed eyes.

Seeing as he did ask, Emma has few qualms about taking his hand (there are no sparks or jolts of electricity – it’s not one of _those_ stories – but his skin is rough and dry under hers in a way that makes her want to explore and Emma hasn’t felt like exploring in a really long time) and she pulls him forward. Except Killian only goes two steps before he stops and Emma lets herself be pulled back and accidentally a lot closer to him than she was before. He smells a bit like smoke and sea salt and his salt and pepper beard has some ginger in it as well.

“We can stay here.”

Emma looks at his frown and thinks that if he was offering for himself, she would have agreed.

///

Killian Jones has moves for a man nearing his 50’s. More moves than most men she has danced with. But then again, Emma can’t remember ever slow-dancing with anyone so that probably isn’t a fair comparison.

He is incredibly tense throughout the whole first song but when the second one rolls around and people seem to have had their fill of staring at them as if they were fucking on top of the Christmas tree rather than dancing with a generous amount of space between them at the very edges of the makeshift dancefloor, and Emma shows no desire to discontinue their swaying and occasional twirls (it’s kind of exciting, she has never been twirled either), Killian almost seems to relax.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Most men do.”

He doesn’t mind the teasing if the tiny chuckle is any indication. It’s nothing close to a proper laugh but it sends a little trill through Emma’s insides.

“Shoot,” she says, keeping her face and mind open.

She has a feeling that Killian Jones is about to try to make her not like him.

“I don’t need the law enforcement to escort me out of our less reputable establishments _these days_.”

He stresses the ‘these days’ part with a sour look and Emma gets the implication but she is much more focused on the other part.

“Except from time to time.”

“No,” he says firmly, looking her in the eye and then glancing away almost guiltily.

“Ummm, I’m not sure what exactly you are confessing here, Jones.”

They are barely swaying in place now and he looks around for a few seconds before swallowing and replying.

“I heard there was a new deputy in town.”

Emma frowns. So the gossip mill did run all the way to him. And her gut instinct was wrong – he did know who she is. She isn’t sure why that makes her feel so shitty. Except she really doesn’t like being wrong and she has enjoyed the vague feeling of being _right_ about Killian.

“So I wanted to…”

“What? Test me out? See how the girl cop would handle your drunken ass?”

His head whips around as if she slapped him _toward_ herself and he doesn’t look hurt by her sharp tone so much as confused.

“What? No, ‘course not. I didn’t _know_ you were a woman. Let alone…”

“Let alone what?”

She stares at him, hard and challenging but he just shakes his head and looks down and she almost feels bad but she doesn’t _get_ what he is even-

“I just thought you’d be someone new.”

“I _am_ someone new.”

But he doesn’t say anything else and sways them a bit more energetically even though his hand is barely holding hers now and she didn’t feel his left arm on her waist to begin with.

And Emma is confused. Because she is someone new and he knew that. And he apparently went and did something he doesn’t do _these days_ just to meet-

Someone new.

Emma looks up sharply and finds Killian gazing in the distance again, unconsciously leading her into the simple steps.

He wanted to meet someone new. Because he and the whole town seem to avoid each other like the plague and Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma was when she decided to come to Storybrooke and actually give meeting some new people a shot.

Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma still is, if she is being honest.

And he wanted to meet someone who didn’t know him or _about_ him. He wanted to make a friend.

“I _am_ someone new.”

He looks back at her and this close to the brightly lit tree his eyes almost look blue again rather than the inky black they take on in the shadows.

He twirls her around and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he got it.

///

“Now that you have such a nice relationship with Mr Jones-“

She is the sixth, _sixth_ , person and it’s only 11:34 so, yeah, Emma snaps.

“Mayor Mills, my personal relationships are of absolutely no concern-“

“Miss Swan, I couldn’t care less about who you choose to spend your time with or how. But, seeing as you seem to have a somewhat amicable relationship with our harbormaster, I’d like to-“

“Who?”

“Mr Jones.”

“He is what now?”

The mayor sighs and gives her a look that tells Emma exactly what a waste of Regina Mill’s time she is.

“For a minimal wage Mr Jones fills the archaic but very occasionally necessary position of harbormaster of Storybrooke.”

“Oh… OK.”

“And seeing as you two are on speaking terms…”

Regina gives her the most fake, politely questioning look in the history of pretense politeness and Emma rolls her eyes but nods.

“It would be of use, if you could ask him to sign these.”

The brunette opens her bag and pulls out a small pile of papers.

“Whoa.”

Emma pulls the sheets closer and wonders, not for the first time, what is everybody’s deal with Jones.

///

“Two grilled cheeses with onion rings, to go.”

“Sheriff Graham prefers fries.”

Emma grits her teeth and swallows the first, second and third reply that knock from inside. Granny is among the quickly-diminishing number of people who have not, as of yet, tried to give her some variation of “the talk” about Killian Jones.

“Two grilled cheeses with _onion rings._ To go.”

The old woman gives her a look that tells Emma exactly how displeased she is with her. Emma gives her one in return.

///

Killian offered to walk her home last night, something about ‘returning the favour’ and ‘gentlemanly behaviour’ which made Emma snort in very non-ladylike amusement.

So really she is just taking her turn to return return the favour.

Killian offered to walk her home last night and then he did so in the same complete silence Emma had walked him home a couple of months ago.

So maybe she just likes having a friend she can be silent with, without her feeling awkward or them feeling uncomfortable.

And friends brought their friends lunch so – there.

///

She heads for the cottage, keeping to the docks until she spots him on the beach, in a little boat which has definitely seen better days.

It takes her shuffling steps on the cold sand to alert him to her presence and she sees the way his shoulders immediately tense up. He turns around – a guarded and downright suspicious look in his eyes.

And then he recognizes her and she swears he is _this close_ to actually smiling at her. Damn.

“Deputy.”

“Harbormaster.”

He raises an amused eyebrow.

“I didn’t even know that was an actual thing,” she adds.

“It hardly is,” he says and steps out of the beached boat. “Especially during the winter.”

“Well, apparently it’s real enough to accumulate a whole lot of paperwork. Which I was so kind to lug all the way here for you.”

“Joyful. How would I ever thank you,” he says drily and Emma grins.

“And you haven’t even seen what’s in here,” she lifts up her bag from Granny’s.

///

Killian Jones likes onion rings so he really can’t be all that bad.

They eat on a bench far enough from the water that the wind doesn’t completely freeze off Emma’s limbs. Killian’s lack of scarf, hat or glove suggests a lack of concern with the cold that is only betrayed by an occasional shiver.

He explains what being a harbormaster entails and what being Storybrooke’s harbormaster entails. Apparently the smaller the harbor, the less his responsibilities, which makes sense to Emma’s nautically-pure mind.

He is probably pretty familiar with what being the sheriff’s deputy means but he listens patiently and attentively to the jog down of her own duties.

“So is that your thing, deputy?”

“My “thing”?”

“Philanthropy, humanitarianism… charity cases.”

He gestures somewhat wearily and she follows the movement with furrowed brows. For a guy with one hand he sure uses it a lot when he talks. Which doesn’t help her get what he actually means.

And then Emma looks at his face and realizes maybe the gesticulating is just a distraction. So she’d pay less attention to his face where everything is laid out, plain to see.

Also – his eyes do look quite nice in the actual sunshine. Which doesn’t stop her from giving him a hard look and grinding her teeth – she’s been doing a lot of that today.

His chuckle is low and weary. She is starting to think that there are few things he does that don’t bring the word ‘weary’ to her mind.

“Honestly, lass, at this point I’m not even complaining. It’s…”

She wants to interrupt him and tell him how far from a philanthropist Emma Swan is. But she also really wants to know how that sentence ends, if given the chance.

“Nice… Aye, it’s nice, I suppose. To talk to someone. Even for a bit.”

Her eyes sting a little and she follows his example and turns her gaze to the sea. It’s like he is talking to the waves and just trusting them to carry his words back to her. She decides to give it a try.

“I’m not even a people person, Jones.”

///

Purposefully or not, she left the paperwork with him. Really, neither of them had a pen on hand so she had to. So now she has to go back to get it.

She brings some hot chocolate with cinnamon this time.

He is in the middle of painting the pathetic little boat and she can tell that he recognizes her steps because he tenses up only the normal amount – the amount displayed by most people who rarely socialize with anyone and are about to do just that.

Emma assumes you can hardly become anything resembling a hermit, if you aren’t at least introverted. But Killian Jones, she decides, would be an introvert even if he wasn’t such a hermit.

Even when she is around – even when she can tell that he doesn’t mind her being around (dare she say, he might even enjoy it) – he still doesn’t talk to her all that much. It’s almost like the silence is a different means of communication, just as deserving of their time as conversation.

Emma finds she quite likes it. Then again, she has always had her own ‘keeping to yourself’ tendencies.

And, contrary to what people say about watching paint dry, watching Killian paint the little boat in silence is kinda cool. But it’s way cooler when he lets her have a go.

It’s less cool when she ruins her semi-new jeans. The ones that make her butt look really nice as well. Damn.

///

He brings her grilled cheese and onion rings. Return of a return of a return of a… whatever. Emma doesn’t know if she is more shocked that he brought her lunch or that he must have gone to Granny’s to get it.

He doesn’t linger and they don’t eat together but he got her order right and she is self-aware enough to know her smile is kinda smitten.

He doesn’t seem bothered by Graham. Not the way Graham is bothered by him.

Then again, Emma thinks it’s more _her_ body language rather than _Killian’s_ presence that’s the sheriff’s issue.

///

Graham Humbert might pick up on body language (2 weeks without a low-key date invitation and counting) but Killian Jones certainly doesn’t.

It’s not that Emma doesn’t want to be friends with the man. She does. He has quickly climbed Emma’s personal social ladder (not that there was anyone on it that could give him much of a challenge) and emerged on top with barely a handful of lunches and a paint job on her apartment that Emma decided he was perfectly qualified for despite all his protests.

And, honestly, if she was being smart about this, Emma would keep it this way. She knows Killian is only starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, she actually does enjoy hanging out with him. That this isn’t some elaborate prank or misplaced kindness or philanthropic urge of hers that Storybrooke’s non-existent charities have left unsatisfied.

He is getting there. But there’s no way in hell he is making a move on her in the next two years.

Which – rather than making her feel calm and safe – is making her more and more frustrated. Just like the way he still looks surprised every time she seeks him out.

Frustration is basically the story of how she shows up at Killian’s cabin at 8pm on a Friday with a bottle of red wine and the disclaimer “We are sharing tragic backstories tonight.”

After his utter stupefaction wears off, Killian gives her a long, searching look – an edge she has never seen from him before peeking through it. It is the first time Emma feels the full weight of more than a decade of life and experience that he has on her.

She waits patiently despite the snowflakes melting in her hair, aware of the fact that sharing wine in his home is different from having cheesy sandwiches by the beach. Aware of the fact that her nose is red and running and her eyes are kinda wide and probably even a little anxious from the scrutiny he is putting her under. Aware of the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and that she was all alone irked her almost as much as the fact that he was as well.

“Is that a usual precursor to presents and Die Hard?”

He opens the door wider and the warm air inside makes her feel even more like she just passed a test.

///

His place is very sparsely lit. If Emma was a different kind of person, she’d call it romantic lighting.

“How the fuck am I supposed to find a corkscrew in this cave?” is the kind of person she is.

“Don’t be overdramatic, Swan. Eyes get more sensitive when you get to a certain age.”

“Actually I’m pretty sure lack of proper lighting is the worst for your eyesight, grandpa.”

“We’ll talk again in 20 years.”

“When you are asking me to read the newspaper to you.”

“You can start practicing right now.”

Before she can formulate a snarky reply she feels what is definitely an honest to God, rolled up newspaper swapping her lightly on the ass. Emma whips around, corkscrew brandished like a sword.

“Would you like to lose an eye as well?” she tries for threatening but it’s really hard to pull off when she is so busy enjoying Killian Jones actually responding to her teasing slash borderline-flirting.

“Nay,” he answers seriously as he goes to retrieve a couple of glasses. “Don’t think an eye-patch would sit well on this face.”

It’s a bold move but she sneaks up on him and when he turns around with the glasses in one hand she is right there – on her tiptoes and in his face, their noses almost touching.

“Mmm, I don’t know…”

She does a masterful show of looking over his shaggy beard, his pink, slightly chapped lips, the scar on his cheek, the straight line of his nose, the deep blue – almost lost in the black of his pupils, the white hairs in his eyebrows and the deep creases in his forehead.

“I can think of few things that won’t go well with this face.”

They stay like that for a few seconds, just breathing together and she thinks maybe now…

Then Killian blinks and looks out of the window, the way he does, as if to clear his mind of her. She can’t say it doesn’t sting a bit.

“We shall test that theory.”

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones wears glasses – big glasses with thick, black frames and a diopter that makes her head hurt. (But they are so damn cute, how on earth is a grown ass man so fucking cute with glasses on – _that_ makes her heart hurt as well).

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s lips get really purple when he drinks red wine. (And he has this whole lecture about how wine gives you such a headache the next day, even at his most indulging rum never made his head pound like a couple of glasses of wine do and really, if she was just trying to get one up on him, she should know there was nothing worth stealing at the house and he can be real grumpy is the point she is trying to make and yet…)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s childhood traumas rival her own. (And she has never been one to ‘weigh up’ disappointments – sometimes you bounce back from freaking tragedies and then the smallest pebble turns your whole world upside-down and that’s just life they say – but Killian’s make her ache in a place other people’s drama never gets to.)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s big crime was trying to start over, falling in love and getting dumped. (“She wanted adventures… I knew that. I was just foolish enough to believe I was one. Maybe I was. One of those impulsive getaways that never last.”)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s unforgivable sin against Storybrooke was making the biggest real estate owner gather his bags and his wife and hightail it out of Storybrooke, demanding everyone either buy the places they were renting from him at the time or find a new roof to sleep under.

“You might have noticed… people in Storybrooke haven’t entirely entered the new millennia. Shackling up with a married woman was bad enough but having to choose between one of their most successful businessmen and the foreigner that fixed up rust-crusted boats… well, if only it was their choice. They certainly would’ve chosen like she did.”

It's the night she tells another soul that sometimes, once in a blue moon, when the loneliness really bites at her heels, she almost regrets that her pregnancy scare was nothing more than that. (“Almost” is the key word but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, feels like just another in a whole life of almosts.)

It’s the night she learns to build a fire. (“I can do it” has always come easy to Emma but when it turns out to be a lie, it’s kinda nice to have someone show her how until it’s true.)

It’s the night she admits that she came up with her surname all on her own and still doesn’t feel like she deserves it. (It’s not as magical as Andersen makes it sound but it does sound possible when Killian looks at her and tells her she is simply wonderful and surely the most beautiful swan _he_ has ever seen.)

It’s the night she watches Die Hard with someone else for the first time. (And Killian is very good at keeping his respectable yet not unfriendly distance, except he has no control over his head falling on her shoulder when he falls asleep.)

It’s the night she kisses the top of his head and wishes him a Merry Christmas. (The night she falls asleep a little more in love than she woke up.)

///

She got him a hat and a scarf.

He got her a thermos with little ducklings on it.

///

It’s not one of _those_ stories. And she tries not to be disappointed when the 1st of January arrives and he has yet to kiss her.

///

“I just don’t see why you wouldn’t go out with Ruby. She accused me of “hogging” you.”

“Oh, so now you talk to Ruby?”

“People are always more than willing to acknowledge me when they have something to yell at me for.”

“So I have to go out with Ruby to get her off your back?”

“You don’t _have to_ do anything. Wouldn’t you like to have some fun?”

“I _was_ having fun before you started trying to kick me out?”

“Watching _Stardust_ on my couch?”

“You have a problem with my movie choice now?”

///

“I mean, what’s the logic male brains come up with? ‘Oh, I know you didn’t like me like that a week ago when I last asked but now that we are the exact same people in the exact same situation, I think things might have changed’?”

“I think it’s more about sheer disbelief.”

“Disbelief?”

“Strapping, young lad like sheriff Graham. Probably thinks he dreamed up your illogical rejection.”

“Five times? And “lad”, really? You sound like Granny.”

///

“Well, excuse me, Mr Health Expert who didn’t own a scarf before I came around.”

“A scarf has absolutely no bearing on one’s health, Swan.”

“And broccoli does?”

“Yes!”

“…”

“…”

“I’ll get the broccoli, if you write me down as your emergency contact.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Broccoli. I don’t have any. Emergency contract. You don’t have any.”

“One. I don’t have _one._ ”

“…”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“It is within the subject of my emergency contact. And, contrary to your obvious belief that I have inhabited earth along with the dinosaurs-“

“I don’t-“

“I’m not about to keel over and die any day now.”

“Not if you know _I_ will know the second you do something stupid like go on the water when it’s storming-“

“ _Drizzling_ at best.”

“…”

“…”

“I’ll throw in some spinach to “sweeten” the deal.”

“Bloody hell.”

///

“Emma, would you just eat your food?”

“No. Not until she serves you as well.”

“Perhaps it takes a bit longer.”

“We ordered the same thing.”

Killian lets out a deep sigh and Emma keeps glaring at Granny with everything she’s got.

“Emma-“

“This is bullshit.”

She gets up so quickly his reaching hand misses her arm completely. She storms up to the counter and feels something feral and primitive and _possessive_ ignite inside her at the woman’s frankly unapologetic look.

“I can count you three violations in this food establishment from right here. Wanna see if I can rack up enough in the back to close you down?”

“The people might just lynch you for that one, deputy.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows, if she wins this starefest with Granny, she wins this, period. But that’s rational thought and way in the back, and at the forefront, she is nothing but the raw menace of a bear with its teeth bared.

And Granny seems to sniff out just how serious she is.

“Mr Jones’s order will be out in a minute.”

///

It’s not one of _those_ stories. But… the first time she hears Killian Jones laugh – really laugh, from the very bottom of his heart, with his eyes alight on her, she feels a part of her heart that she didn’t even know existed jump to attention and listen.

///

By the end of January Emma is long past frustration. She is about to blow a gasket. Or whatever it is that people say when you are five seconds away from brutally attacking the guy you are in love with with your mouth and your hands and your everything.

The perks of being in her 30’s are supposed to include not feeling like a teenager with a hopeless case of unrequited love.

And honestly, she doubts how unrequited it can really be with the way Killian looks at her from time to time. It’s a solid leap past ‘deprived of human contact’ and dangerously close to ‘we should have all the contact humanly possible’.

Emma is no idiot. Either their jaded personalities and starved hearts or the simple overabundance of estrogen gathering up inside her, have her convinced that Killian Jones must be her freaking soulmate or something. But she knows he might not see things the same overly sentimental way.

And better yet, she knows that even if he does, he will willfully ignore every sign of her feeling the same way in favour of thinking he is too old for her, too damaged, too inconvenient in some way.

And she realizes signs just won’t cut it about the time she fully accepts the fact that it wouldn’t make a difference if he _was_ the most ancient, most damaged and most inconvenient person in the world. Just as long as he agreed to be her person.

///

“Are you blind?”

“You are aware of my poor eyesight, Swan,” he says without turning around from his newest restoration job.

It incites her even more.

“Are you dumb?”

That earns her eye contact and some indignation.

“Wha-“

“Are you genuinely unaware of why I’m here, why I always want to be here, or are you just too comfortable ignoring it?”

His face closes off in a way she hasn’t seen it do. But then she recognizes it. It’s the expression that met her the first time he laid eyes on her.

“You don’t know what you want, Emma.”

“Well, that’s patronizing.”

“It’s a request.”

“A request?”

“For you to know your own mind before you speak it.”

His cool demeanor makes her ire burn even hotter.

“Fuck you! I know my own mind, Killian!”

“If you don’t want to be here-“

“I want _you_!”

“You want me,” he closes his eyes and nods. “I’m the guy you met at the bottom of a bottle. I’m the one-handed guy the whole town hates.”

It’s a wrong move on his part – closing his eyes, and he should know it by now, should now how she can sneak up on him and take him by surprise.

Like she does when he opens his eyes and she is kneeling next to him in his muddy backyard.

“You’re not… Killian… you’re my adventure. And not the weekend getaway kind, the lifelong kind.”

His eyes widen and his face finally melts and she can finally see his trepidation, plain as his longing.

“Emma-“

“Do you only care that you weren’t hers?”

It’s not what she wants to say or what she wants to hear but it comes from some of her own insecure pieces that have been uncharacteristically quiet around Killian Jones until now.

His brows furrow painfully and her hand automatically reaches to smooth them out the way it does more and more often these days. But he catches her wrist mid-air and pulls – not enough to drag her closer but enough that her fingers find his chest while his press at her pulse point.

“People have never thought much of me but you can’t think so little as to believe I still hold a candle for a woman who couldn’t run fast enough when she realized I would never make what her husband already had.”

She opens her mouth probably with something only slightly snarky and a whole lot honest about exactly how much she thinks of him but his gaze softens over her face and the words stay on her tongue, heavy like her fingers on the fabric separating them from his skin.

“Surely you can’t think so little of yourself as not to realize that the very moment I met you… I told you, Emma… I just wanted to meet someone new. Thought I might luck out with some solid bloke or a hardened old cop who hasn’t let the town get to him yet. And instead…”

He drops his gaze and furrows his brows again and this time she raises her other hand, pauses millimeters from his face, just because he can’t capture it, just to give him a chance to pull back, then softly runs her thumb over the deep wrinkle between his brows until it smooths out almost completely and lets her palm frame his cheek, fingers tapping gently at the crow’s feet beside his eye. It focuses on her.

“Instead it was you. Young and beautiful, flushed and looking like you rushed to the bar spoiling for a fight. And… I suppose I have had some bad breaks but I swear I’ve never thought so clearly…”

“…what?”

“’I wish I could turn back time.’ To before… Bloody hell, before so much. Just watch the arrows fly… before all the years in this cabin, before Storybrooke, before the Navy, I could see it so clearly. I’d shake it all off and just stand there in front of you and ask about your name.”

 “You did eventually.”

“Yeah, eventually,” his smile is melancholic but it loves her even in its melancholy. “You wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

“And I don’t intend to.”

“No?” he swallows hard and she feels herself gaining that inch, bunches the fabric of his sweater between her fingers.

“No. We’re both right here. Right now. And you don’t have to turn back time… You don’t have to change anything.”

His eyes grow more watery the longer they stare into hers. But she needs a little something for the last push. And then his gaze slips to her lips.

“Nothing at all?”

“Well… we could be a bit closer in the here and now.”

She barely hears his hum of agreement as her arm flexes and pulls him towards her, his lips landing a little to the right of hers and his forearm meeting the ground to stop him from falling on top of her. Emma twists her head just a little and finds his mouth – warm and uncertain and ready and yet so tentative, and she takes all that and gives him back the taste of her certainty and her need and yet her newfound patience. He puts it to the test right away – caressing her lips, little more than breathing against her before her hand slips into his hair and his nose finally digs into her cheek as his tongue comes out to taste her lower lip.

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to her. And in the next second her leg slips where they are basically kneeling in the mud and Killian kicks over a can of yellow paint in his attempt not to fall on her and she knocks over the boat’s oar which knocks him on the head and it’s the messiest thing that’s ever happened to her as well. But even as she rubs at the back of his head, asking if he is alright, and feels the mud and paint seep into her jeans (they are not new but damn, now that this is sorted maybe she can stop wearing the ones that make her ass look the best around him), she thinks it’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to her as well.

///

It’s not one of _those_ stories.

So their love doesn’t exactly win over the residents of Storybrooke. If anything, it makes them hate Killian even more and Emma just enough. So eventually Emma says fuck it and spends three weeks working Killian over until he admits that yes, he was being kinda masochistic by staying in Storybrooke (no matter how much he points out that it worked out for him pretty well in the end) and there’s really nothing holding them here.

It’s not one of _those_ stories.

So Emma goes back to bailbonds in Boston and Killian hates how much more dangerous it is compared to sleepy old Storybrooke. And he tries this and that but eventually decides he should stick to what he knows and manages to get an only-slightly-shitty job at the harbor. And eventually, once she has earned back her reputation, Emma concedes to monitoring her cases so she mostly goes after losers rather than hardened criminals, and occasionally she misses the thrill of bagging a real asshole, and sometimes she takes a hard case just to spite Killian and his overprotective grumbling but mostly… mostly she basks in the knowledge that she has someone to come home to, someone who worries and someone she doesn’t actually want to worry. And twice, then three times, Killian manages to convince people to let him restore their old boats and it never amounts to much money and she knows it nags at him but it always manages to get him excited and each boat ends up prettier and so full of new life and she knows he loves it and she only helps so she can strategically get some paint on her face because _she_ loves the end result there as well.

It’s not one of _those_ stories.

So Emma finds out that being in a relationship with someone who is older than you can be quite scary. In the very real and very terrifying way of realizing that you don’t want to live without that someone but that eventually, even if that moment is way off in the distance, you might very well have to. And Killian certainly doesn’t appreciate her making him get all kinds of check-ups, and drawing lists upon lists of things that he should eat more of and others he should eat less of, and getting them an exercising plan that is borderline torture. And then they end up yelling and he ends up telling her that she wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, if she got herself a fit 30-something and she ends up fainting. And when she comes to Emma gets to experience the weirdest mix of terrified of what’s wrong with her and relieved that Killian now seems to get what had her going mental with all the healthy living and he claims to have discovered new reserves of selfishness in himself and she is so not getting herself any fit 30-somethings and Emma decides not to point out the selflessness of that when it seems it’s her there might be something very wrong with. Except it turns out there’s nothing wrong with her. There’s something very right with her and inside her. And, bonus, Killian is on board with all the healthy living now. To the point where she knows in a few months – when she is craving peanut butter and pickles – she will be the one grumbling and he better be prepared. He doesn’t seem too perturbed. Then again, she did warn him that he was her adventure – the lifelong kind. And lo and behold, this time Emma was definitely right.

Maybe it is one of _those_ stories.


	2. One of Those Stories (Killian's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Killian’s life is one of those stories. So, you know, draw your conclusions and epiphanies, shed a tear or two, and take pointers so you never end up like him, and then kindly get the fuck out.
> 
> Because the story might not be over but it sure feels like it to him and Killian Jones may be a good many things and may not be a good many more but he is rarely wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to everyone for the absolutely wonderful response to Not One of Those Stories! It really nudged me into writing this sort of continuation that I was toying with. So this is Killian's POV. I often find different POV fics a bit redundant so I've tried to tell a lot more of this story rather than just tell the same story again through Killian's eyes.  
> Hope you enjoy! :))

Just so you know, this is exactly one of _those_ stories. The gritty, harsh, ‘reality bites and hard’ stories that are so popular with today’s disillusioned society. The ones meant to make you think, reevaluate life, count your blessings, maybe have an epiphany or two and, if not, at least prompt you into calling your mom, telling your sibling you love them even when you can’t stand them or kissing your girlfriend instead of arguing about the time you need to leave to make your dinner reservations.

Except Killian doesn’t have a mom to call anymore or a girlfriend to kiss or a brother to confide in or even a friend to catch up with and listen to and maybe spill his own guts in front of.

Killian’s life _is_ one of _those_ stories. So, you know, draw your conclusions and epiphanies, shed a tear or two, and take pointers so you never end up like him, and then kindly get the fuck out.

Because the story might not be over but it sure feels like it to him and Killian Jones may be a good many things and may not be a good many more but he is rarely wrong.

///

If only he could teach himself photosynthesis, Killian could bring his interactions with the wonderful denizens of Storybrooke to their complete and much desired end. Except, he knows that’s not how this works.

Small towns are minefields. People need someone to hate – they simply can’t like and get along with everyone, nor do they want to. But then again, they also can’t exactly rage against their neighbour or co-worker because they will know about it the very next day. No, small towns like Storybrooke need and want that one black sheep that can save any awkward social interaction with its mere existence.

And Killian Jones, intentionally or not, has become just that. Doesn’t matter if you don’t see eye to eye about anything with your boss, you can be sure that you both hate “that Jones guy who ruined the town’s future”.

He is pretty sure the cashier that is already glaring down the line at him (as if he is not patiently waiting his turn but trying to sneak away with half the rundown supermarket’s merchandise) is too young to even know his story. But that’s of no consequence. When her break comes, she’ll get to go in the back and explain that she had to ring up “the Jones guy” and she will receive all the attention and sympathy one can expect after having witnessed a horrific accident or being subjected to a painful medical procedure.

If it wasn’t so sad and hadn’t gotten so damn old, Killian would probably find it funny. Or some old version of him that saw the funny in things would.

As it is, he mumbles a ‘hello’ he doesn’t expect a response to and tries to bag his groceries as fast as a person can when working singlehandedly. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on the people in line behind him. As a matter of fact, he has become incredibly good at not tuning into what people are saying, even on the rare occasion when they are speaking directly to him. He finds it beneficial to what’s left of his sanity.

But the words “newcomer” and “deputy” catch his attention and he can’t help but listen as the couple argues if the newest addition to Storybrooke’s law enforcement is arriving this week or at the beginning of next. (A mighty important distinction that, worthy of the whisper-yells between the two.)

The cashier clears her throat – loudly and pointedly and Killian blinks at her for a second before hurriedly fishing out his card.

A new person in town. A policeman. Probably somebody well into their middle age, if the choice of sleepy old Storybrooke is any indication.

Killian tries to temper it down, snuff it out before it gets the chance to taunt him with its existence, but it’s there – flickering ever so hesitantly and tentatively – so unfamiliar and somewhat frightening. And try as he might, he can’t obliterate it completely and he can’t help but love it just a little bit, this fragile feeling of…

Hope.

///

The bartender makes it no secret that Killian is the worst surprise he has received all year.

And frankly? This wasn’t his first choice either. He went down into that ditch after Liam and then again after Milah and he had no small trouble dragging himself out of it all on his own both times. But these days Killian can have a beer or a couple of glasses of wine or even an Old Fashioned when he feels like treating himself without waking up with no recollection of his whereabouts and the taste of vomit on his breath.

So, yeah, he’d rather not be in a bar and he’d rather not be nursing a glass of vodka (see he is being smart about it because he never liked the stuff anyway, much safer than ordering himself a glass of his old pal Sailor Jerry) but desperate times and all that.

He doesn’t know if his social skills are that rusty or it’s sound logic that the fastest way to get acquainted with the law enforcement is to defy the law in some way.

Scratch that. His social skills are dead and decomposing six feet under and this is a horrible idea.

And, yet, he already has a drink in front of him and he timed this so there’s just an hour to closing time and what if this new person doesn’t hate him on sight? Worth the shot, aye?

///

This is one of _those_ stories.

So of course it was a horrible, bloody ridiculous idea. He knows it the second she walks in – all nervous energy and bouncing golden hair and a commanding tone to her voice that manages to attract and intimidate him all in the same sweep her eyes do of his shape. Unimpressed and definitely annoyed.

_Join the bloody club, lass._

Gods, she is the kind of curveball, he would have given anything to be thrown 20 years ago.

And all Killian can do is think about how much he wishes he could turn back time. To a moment when he is just a guy in a bar, a guy who can just go up to this pretty girl and ask her name and if maybe they could have a drink and then dinner tomorrow and then whatever else she wants.

But no. Instead he is the town ex-drunk slash permanent persona non grata, currently just a little drunk and a whole lot disgruntled, and she is here because she has to escort him off the premises. He stumbles off his chair a bit more theatrically than he has to – just to sell the whole thing, maybe to ignore looking at the deputy again and finding out what colour her eyes are.

He walks out, watches his bitter little laugh puff out in a pathetic little cloud. What was he even thinking? This would’ve amounted to nothing no matter what.

Probably a good thing the deputy is someone he can have no illusions about having anything to do with. Saves him the trouble of making even more of a fool of himself. Of bloody _hoping_.

He is going to laugh to himself ( _at_ himself) again when he hears the footsteps behind him. Her car is probably parked nearby.

Except she parked pretty damn far, if that’s the case, and it takes him embarrassingly long to realize that no, she is definitely following him. The fact that he can feel her eyes burning into the side of his head rather helps. And also makes it all the harder to completely ignore her presence.

But stubbornness is one of the very few things Killian Jones is actually pretty decent at.

///

He wakes up cursing every deity he doesn’t believe in for sending him dreams of handing his jacket to a blonde girl who walked him almost to his door for no discernible reason, when he knows damn well that he didn’t dare do any such thing when she was shivering an arm’s reach away last night.

///

In the following month or so Killian does his best not to think about the sheriff’s new deputy. He believes the difficulty in achieving this stems from the following: a) she happens to be the person he has spent the most time alone with in heaven knows how long since b) his time is mostly spent in the company of dusty books and rusty boats which – while pleasant enough – do not present the best of distractions when it comes to c) the fact that the deputy is a beautiful woman that carries a gun on her at most times.

Honestly, he is disgusted with himself. He spent half an hour in woman’s company. Not even talking to her because frankly he had trouble then and still has trouble now thinking of a single thing he can say to her that she’d be interested in hearing.

But beautiful and intimidating has always been the quickest way to make Killian’s pulse race. And apparently his pulse doesn’t care one bit that it (and all the rest of him) stands absolutely no chance with a girl like that. A girl that has no place in a dump like Storybrooke.

It took him 20 seconds to figure that one out. Yet he is terribly reluctant to bet on how long it will take her.

///

This is one of _those_ stories.

So he is prone to observation and contemplation. And loath as he is to admit it, he is prone to sentimentality as well.

And damn it all, he likes the yellow vehicle.

When he sees a patrol car, he can _imagine_ it’s her but he can never be quite sure. But that absolutely horrendous and unmistakable yellow started catching his attention down at the docks or when making one of his unavoidable trips into town only after _she_ showed up. So Killian drew his conclusions.

It's not… he doesn’t know her. He doesn’t even _plan_ on knowing her. She’s just… someone new. Which makes her an outsider like him. Well, less of an outside than _him_ surely but-

Killian figures it was bound to happen. What with the isolation and the alcohol-heavy history and the trauma or whatever bollocks a psychiatrist will label the larger part of his life as-

He is losing his bloody mind. It was bound to happen.

///

Killian just hopes and prays and a whole lot of other things he hasn’t done in years that she is not coming over to finally extract ‘the story’ from him.

He really doesn’t feel like going into ‘the story’ tonight. Or ever. But especially not tonight. Bloody hell, he just came out to watch the pretty lights.

Childish? Perhaps. But it is the one night a year when he can talk himself into setting foot in the town center. The one night _everyone_ is out and the crowd is so big and so thick and so loud and so riotously joyful and sappy that he knows he can be part of _everyone_. Or at least he can pretend to.

And the big tree in the town square looks like a lighthouse from his cabin but if you have ever had the luck to actually go near a lighthouse – like Killian has many, many times – you’d know it’s so much more humbling and awe-inspiring and just plain beautiful when you are standing at its feet, staring up at the bright light that seems bigger than the night, big enough to wash away all the darkness.

He likes that. He likes to soak it up for a bit every year before he goes back to his corner of long shadows and rough sands and chilling breezes.

So he came out for the lights. Like he does every year. He really didn’t come out for the third degree from the deputy looking to prove her detective skills or some such rot.

Gods, don’t let her demand the story about his hand. Her ill-hidden (not hidden at all really) shock and curiosity the last time they ran into each other was unavoidable and unsurprising. But he’d certainly hoped she won’t be presented with an opportunity to follow up on all that.

Which she doesn’t. She doesn’t say much of anything, let alone ask or pry, even when he sets her up for it. And Killian just thinks to hell with it and does something he hasn’t done in a good few years.

He introduces himself.

///

“Maybe I haven’t been asked?”

He knows that is not the case. Try as he might, he couldn’t help following _Emma_ ’s unmistakable red pea coat and her blond curls. They make a terribly recognizable and easy to spot combination.

Which is why Killian knows that two of the Dwarver brothers, an increasingly uncoordinated blond man and her boss himself have already attempted to tempt deputy Swan onto the dancefloor. Unsuccessfully. He might be wrong (he _did_ try to lose her from sight and said sight is nothing like it used to be) but it seemed like sheriff Graham tried his luck more than once even.

Killian simply assumed she wasn’t one for dancing. Or dancing in public at least. He recalls the way she stalked into the Rabbit Hole that night. It seems downright blasphemous for someone with so much natural grace to never let her hair down.

But now she is displaying a clear interest in partaking in the shenanigans and he thinks perhaps, being new to town, deputy Swan simply does not wish to reveal her hand so soon. But she can certainly take a spin with him without arousing any suspicions about any other interest or relations.

The thought seems to stick in his head and his throat rather uncomfortably, making his reply sound gruffer than is probably acceptable.

“I’m certain you would do much better with a younger, more capable partner.”

But she doesn’t flinch back. If anything, her previous blush dissipates in the face of some newfound determination.

He hasn’t the foggiest what this woman is on about but she has bestowed both unintrusive conversation and a warm drink on him tonight so he figures the least he can do is humour her and give her a break from the single male population of Storybrooke.

“Would you like to dance, Swan?”

///

He doesn’t mean for the whole town to see them dancing.

(But Emma Swan doesn’t seem that aware of (or perhaps concerned with) town politics.)

He doesn’t mean to keep her in his arms for more than a song.

(But Emma Swan doesn’t let go of his hand when he thanks her for the dance and half-bows to her like the 17th century buffoons she was referencing earlier.)

He doesn’t mean to bring up their first meeting.

(But Emma Swan has those deep green eyes that seem to drag at his secrets.)

He doesn’t mean to let on that he just wanted to maybe make a friend.

(But Emma Swan almost sounds like she’d like a friend as well.)

He doesn’t mean to walk her home.

(But Emma Swan accepts before he has even finished offering.)

He doesn’t mean to enjoy himself in the presence of a woman whose absence is certainly fast-approaching.

(But Emma Swan cannot be contained in what he means to and doesn’t mean to.)

///

One of the few things Killian remembers about his father is how he always used to say he “couldn’t stop running his mouth”.

Now his father never knew him very well and Killian takes that as just another piece of proof of that.

He likes words, certainly. He likes the power that choosing the right word gives you and the danger of picking the wrong one.

But his mother, Liam used to tell him, was the one always telling stories. And his father was the one always raising his voice along with his hand. And later, when they were alone and when they were in the Navy, no matter the size or importance of the audience, Liam was the one with the speeches – thrilling, inspiring. And Milah. Milah was the one with the plans and putting all those plans into words, into promises, promises that turned into requests, requests and then excuses, excuses.

Killian knows the power of words and that’s as far as his own power goes. There’s been plenty he has wanted to say in his life – or rather, plenty he has wanted to yell out at the world – but not much he felt would be heard.

And now he doesn’t like filling silences. If he did, he’d have developed a serious case of talking to himself long ago. Silences, one must believe, have their own appeal.

He has always felt more “heard” when he did things with his hands. And even still, doing them with just the one.

So he drags the metal brush down the side of the boat and feels satisfaction in the tiniest chip of rust that falls away. It feels a whole lot like digging somebody out of a prison – spoonful by spoonful of dirt. It’s a labour of patience. Perhaps even love. But he has yet to free a boat that doesn’t deserve the time and effort.

It’s a rather pointless hobby truly. But then isn’t that what hobbies are supposed to be? That seems like one of those normal life things that he actually got right. It brings him some much needed peace.

Which is why he grits his teeth and squares his shoulders when he hears the footsteps disrupting thousands of specks of sand behind him. He has had more interaction with Storybrooke’s finest this morning that he had throughout the whole year.

He knows all about _what a nice girl Emma Swan is_ now.

(Though he gathered that Swan is a good one pretty quick all on his own and if he were a betting man, he’d say she probably doesn’t fancy being called a “girl”.)

He knows all about _what a great team her and sheriff Graham make_ now.

(Though he gathered from the sheriff’s hovering and puppy eyes last night that an “item” (or whatever term the kids prefer these days) is the desired, and probably soon to be achieved, description – a sentiment that the citizens obviously share.)

He knows all about _what a peaceful and respectable town Storybrooke is_ now.

(Though he gathered a whole lot of what the price of that peace and respectability is all on his own long before anyone bothered to inform him of it.)

But, yes, he knows it all now. He has been properly and repeatedly informed. The deputy is off limits.

He is flattered really. It’s like Storybrooke hasn’t really registered the last decade or so and still thinks he can just swoop into town and have any woman he wants or, as the case might be, make any woman that swoops into town want him.

As if now that they have had a proper conversation Emma Swan will be unable to resist seeking him out.

///

“I’m not even a people person, Jones.”

It makes him huff out half a chuckle that. It puts his mind at ease. Somewhat.

The clinch is that Emma Swan is damn fine company. And she makes it really hard for him to focus on figuring out _why_ she is here when she is being… well, here.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She looks back at him and he can’t help but admire the sparkle in her eye, the challenge and the enjoyment of being presented with a challenge.

Gods, he used to love those. He is not sure he has the energy anymore.

“Well, you just bring out the chattiness in a person.”

Killian shakes his head and takes another bite of the grilled cheese she brought him to hide his smile. The woman brought him lunch. And paperwork.

Bloody hell. He is only slightly terrified that he might just be able to muster the energy for this challenge.

///

“I’m gonna mess it up!”

“Swan, it’s a dingy old boat that will see a couple of days at sea, if I’m feeling benevolent.”

Emma gives him a hard look that makes him feel like she has already seen too much of his attachment to the poor forgotten vessels.

“And I certainly do not care about whether the lines on the sides are straight.”

She huffs and tightens her ponytail for the fourth time since he offered her the brush. You’d think he was asking her to restore the Sistine Chapel.

“Ok, ok,” and honest to God shakes her hands in front of her. “How about you draw the lines and I just… colour in.”

He is too old to even be thinking words like “super adorable”.

“One, you are not five.”

He counts on his fingers and tries not to grin at her eyeroll.

“Two, I do not care about the lines, as previously stated.”

Queue eyeroll.

“And three, I have just the one hand, who says I can do a better job?”

Queue a look – 50% frustration, 50% _are you fucking with me?_

“Ummm, ‘cause you’ve been doing this for ages? And painting is not a two-hand job?”

The sudden urge to comment further on other two-hand jobs takes him by such surprise that Killian just grabs the brush and gets on his knees next to the boat.

It’s a strange experience to say the least. Having someone there, watching him as closely and carefully as he can feel Emma watching him as he draws the brush over the worn but sturdy wood. It makes his neck tingle a little bit.

He is definitely too old for “tingles”.

And he almost feels bad when she backs into the can of paint. Those jeans – he noticed despite his finest efforts – do look delightful on her. But then so does her nose all pink from the biting wind and the proud little sparkle in her eyes and the _super adorable_ way she wiggles her paint-covered fingers in his face.

///

At 48 Killian Jones has finally realized that he is nonflammable. Admittedly, it would’ve been a useful thing to know in the past but still, better late than never. And it is certainly coming into use now as the widow Lucas tries to incinerate him with the mere strength of her glare magnified through her glasses.

It’s been 45 minutes. He has been waiting for two grilled cheese sandwiches and an order of onion rings for 45 minutes.

At one point he thought it was a bad idea. Now he is almost enjoying himself. And his newfound nonflammableness.

It came to his attention late last night – as he was _not_ considering if the town’s deputy likes fireplaces and marshmallows – that Emma Swan has somehow purchased him multiple drinks and introduced him to her favourite meals at this point in their acquaintance. And he has failed to return the favour.

His social skills might be rusty but if there is a life after this one, he is surprised his brother hasn’t hit him with a lightening or something else falling from above by now.

So here he is, waiting for grilled cheese and onion rings for… 48 minutes now. Convinced that Emma’s mere shock at him stopping by the station will be worth the wait.

It takes an hour and 16 minutes for the old woman to figure out that she’d have to give him the food, if she wants to get him out of her establishment.

Emma’s grin and the way she squeezes his forearm and goes on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek is definitely worth the wait and he is a doomed man and will take that lightening right about now.

///

“I fail to see why you concluded that painting ruddy old boats for the hell of it makes me an expect with a paintbrush, Swan.”

“It still makes you the most experienced person I know.”

She grins at him as if that makes perfect sense and deposits another can of dull pink in his arms.

The can says “Amaranth”. Killian doesn’t care to know pink that well. And to be honest Emma doesn’t seem to either.

“Doesn’t that tall blond fellow live in your building?”

“David? Yeah. Look at you knowing people.”

He huffs – half in response to her teasing, half in response to the fourth can she puts in his arms – this one finally obscuring her from his view completely.

“He’s lived here forever and he’s rather hard to miss. And your sheriff, as well, has an inch or two on both of us.”

Truly, Killian does not _want_ to breech the sheriff topic with Emma. He has been coming around to the realization that Emma Swan might be his friend now – one grilled cheese at a time. And he is _more_ than content with that. Floored is more like it. Still waiting for her to realize he has lived in this small town and painted boats for ten years, and he doesn’t really have other friends, a hand or any semblance of a social life and, overall, is not all that interesting anymore.

Still. Killian’s eyesight is not what it used to be but he is not _completely_ blind yet. Emma Swan is a lovely woman. Strong willed, with a pretty short fuse and very nice fitting jeans. Sensible but also unbearably cute at the most surprising times and _bloody interesting_.

So, yes, he is extremely fortunate to have possibly, somehow ended up within the circle of her friends. Also extremely aware that a few years and life disasters ago he would’ve loved to be much more.

Which is why Killian does not _want_ to breech the sheriff subject but he absolutely _should_. It would put some… things to their very necessary end.

He feels the strain on his forearms lessen by two cans she has taken in her own hands and behold, a view of Emma’s face again. It looks strangely pinched.

“He’s not _my_ sheriff, he’s the town’s sheriff,” she says as she heads for the counter.

He is obviously meant to follow.

“And, I know you’re not like… chatting anyone’s ear off but… do not call him that in front of people. They have _enough_ ideas as it is. I’m enjoying my break from having to come up with new ways to say ‘no’ every three days.”

 _Bloody hell, Emma,_ not _helping._

///

“Do you have any Christmas plans?”

“Yes, my couch and fireplace would be desolate, if I cancel.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything else.

Instead she acts like the paint that ends up on his sleeve is a total accident.

///

He stares hard at his bathroom mirror, watching his own calculated movements. It takes him a while to realize why he is having such a hard time with a bloody trim. He hasn’t really bothered maintaining his beard like that in a good while.

The realization makes him cut himself.

He is a bloody fool is what he is.

He abandons the whole task.

///

Killian is a pretty orderly person but he has definitely not dusted in the last two weeks. His hallway is muddy and there are a couple of dishes and a greasy pan in his sink and he knows there’s a hole in his left sock because his heel is cold where it makes direct contact with the floor.

But none of that seems to matter when Emma Swan shakes the snowflakes from her hair and spots his huge bookcase while unwinding the scarf around her neck – her mouth opening in a misshaped little ‘o’ of childlike wonder.

He is nervous about putting on his bloody glasses. Like a kid who just got a pair and has to wear them to school for the first time. Except the exact opposite, because he is aware that he more than looks his age but he certainly didn’t need bloody glasses when he was in the Navy and it’s just another indication, another reminder of how ahead he is in certain things. The life wasting kind of things.

But none of that seems to matter when Emma Swan asks permission to snatch the black frames off his face and put them on, wrinkling her nose and saying they make her head hurt but making him snap a picture so she can see how they look on her anyway and then wrinkling her nose and declaring them “way cuter” on him and this is certainly _not_ what he prepared for tonight.

He doesn’t want to talk about Milah. Doesn’t want to think about the fact that even when he was supposedly an interesting guy, the novelty of him seemed to wear off pretty quickly. Doesn’t really want to go into detail about how Storybrooke chewed him up and decided to spit him out as far away as possible.

But none of that seems to matter when Emma Swan is telling him about that one school she was in where all the kids made each other stupid cards for every single holiday. And her voice says she thought they were anything but stupid and her eyes say that all she wanted was one card.

He doesn’t want to talk about his sodding past with its almost gory details but none of that seems to matter when Emma Swan tells him things that lodge themselves right beneath his breastbone and make him think that she regrets her ‘almosts’ as much as he regrets his ‘shouldn’t haves’.

He doesn’t want to think about the scolding tone in her voice as she hands him her present and tells him he’s tempted bronchitis for too long already or about the way she tries to bite down her pleased as punch grin when she pulls the dark blue hat over his head but none of that seems to matter when Emma Swan’s fingers clutch at the pisspoor wrapping job he did on her present as if she’d guard it with her life if she has to.

He doesn’t want to risk her burning her fingers trying to rekindle the fire and he doesn’t want her to see the weird way he has to maneuver to do it with one hand but none of that seems to matter when it turns out that Emma Swan does indeed fancy fireplaces and marshmallows.

He doesn’t want to bugger this all up by sitting too close to her or being constantly in her space or getting his left arm somewhere near her and making her uncomfortable but none of that seems to matter when he wakes up on the 25th of December with Emma Swan’s nose buried in his hair and her arms tight around him and one of her hands snuck between his left forearm and the sleeve meant to be wrapped around it and his glasses on the table where he definitely didn’t leave them before falling asleep.

He doesn’t want to set himself up for another fall that might just leave him too broken to get up but none of that seems to matter when he realizes the fall has already happened and now he is just too afraid to move and find out what he has broken.

///

It’s one of _those_ stories.

So he is already doubting… the very reality of the last month, when he makes one of his rare but now existent trips to Granny’s and comes face to face with Ruby Lucas.

“So what exactly is so much fun that Emma would turn down a cocktail night with the girls?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t beg my anything, Jones. Just stop hogging the girl.”

“I was not aware I was-“

“Yeah? Well, you are. And I get that you are all different and _intriguing_ or whatever but once the _intrigue_ has worn off Emma would still like to have friends around here and our dear sheriff chasing after her any chance he gets.”

Ruby says that last one almost bitterly and Killian would certainly call her out on it, if he wasn’t too caught up in his own bitterness.

///

Bloody hell.

He’s gone and done it now. He has finally sealed his death warrant. And over acting like a bloody teenager no less.

He could’ve just told Emma he didn’t feel like dinner and a movie or Netflix and chill or whatever she called it. But apparently his flair for the dramatic hasn’t fizzled out quite as much as he thought.

No, he had to go and take a bloody boat to the bloody sea in the beginning of bloody January to keep away from bloody Emma Swan.

Alright, he doesn’t mean that last one. He hopes Emma is not the officer called when his stupid body washes up on the beach.

///

Killian feels the sting in his cheek and then her arms feel like liquid fire around his frozen neck and he doesn’t even know what to do with this woman anymore.

He went and almost got himself killed – yes, he is aware that it’s “fucking storming like there’s no tomorrow, you absolute fucking idiot” even if he will maintain that it was “merely drizzling, Swan, do try not to exaggerate, it doesn’t befit an officer of the law” – and she didn’t even go out with bloody Ruby or whoever she is meant to socialize with when he makes himself scarce.

No, the infuriating woman is a hell of an officer and spotted the missing boat right away. Parked her infuriating car at the damn harbor and waited for him to come back just so she could slap him around and then hug the daylights out of him.

“This is not sailing weather! Even I know that!”

“Swan-“

“You can’t even see in the bloody rain!”

“I ca-“

“It’s fucking January!”

“I’m a-“

“I’m gonna put you under house arrest!”

He feels his eyebrows almost shoot off his forehead at that last one.

“On what grounds?”

“Being a fucking idiot!”

_Well, she’s got you there._

///

He doesn’t mean to tell her about his conversation with Ruby.

But by now he should have more than solidified his early impression – Emma Swan cannot be contained in what he means to and doesn’t mean to.

Emma insists on driving him home and she insists he take a shower the second they walk through the door and she decides to use that time to make dinner and she apparently chose and queued up _Stardust_ while she was waiting for the pasta to boil and she is just leaving him without any defenses and any desire to be anything but completely honest with her.

And he is a weak, weak man and she is annoyed with him as it is so he doesn’t make a peep when she swings her legs into his lap and throws the blanket she was using over the both of them.

///

“Why don’t you just go out with the poor lad?”

It comes off more biting than he means to. Definitely more biting than she deserves.

But Killian is bloody tired of Emma complaining about Graham Humbert’s advances. Yes, she is gorgeous and enticing and yes, of course, an equally handsome man, probably with tons of plans and desires for the future, wants to take her out.

Killian is _aware_ , he doesn’t need to hear about it every week.

Except now he feels like the biggest arse because he can see her clenching her teeth and she is looking down at her salad – and since when does she get them salads for lunch anyway – and he can tell he has hurt her but he doesn’t entirely grasp _how_. But it doesn’t matter. He is an arse, that’s for certain.

And he is not even surprised when Emma gets off the bench and bags up her lunch. He is surprised when she looks at him again before she goes. He is surprised by the way her eyes burn into his.

“Because I’m not interested in spending time with Graham outside of work hours.”

///

It’s one of _those_ stories. And this might be the single most ridiculous thing he has ever done and it’s probably not his place, and it’s not even that smart or cute or anything.

But he makes her a card for bloody Grilled Cheese Sandwich Day.

///

It’s one of _those_ stories. But… when he comes into her apartment, the book she asked to borrow under his arm, and Emma’s face literally lights up, he can’t help but think bitter endings might just be rough middles, struggling to look ahead.

///

Killian is not a complete idiot.

He knows Emma trusts him. Knows she cares about him and even likes him despite his aversion to technology and his inability to cut his own stake and the deep lines and the ugly scars.

It’s hard to grasp but there’s only so much stubbornness and willful ignorance that a person is capable of.

He knows Emma wants to spend time with him. Knows she might even want other things with him which he should not even be allowed to fantasize about with someone like her but his dreams have certainly not received that memo.

It’s almost impossible to imagine but there are only so many times he can catch her eyes lingering on his lips over lunch or feel her toes accidentally slide over his inner thigh on one of their couches, only so many times he can feel her leaning backwards instead of forward when he holds the door for her and instinctively puts his forearm on the small of her back.

Killian has managed to suspend all his disbelief and admit that Emma wants to be with him. It’s the thought of exactly how long that can possibly last that makes him dive back into willful denial and healthy avoidance.

///

And then she gets down in the mud in his backyard and lays waste to all him denial tactics and avoidance techniques.

///

“Do you want me to stay over?”

His fingers still where they were tentatively running over the naked skin between her sweater and his sweatpants. Her jeans are in the drier even though the paint blotches are still visible and he certainly expected her to put them back on and go home soon enough.

“You can go whenever you want, Swan, I do-“

“I don’t. Want to go.”

She dips her head and he almost jumps at the feel of her lips in the hollow of his throat. The feel of her lips is still a brand new experience all by itself, let alone against his skin.

“Then you can stay. I-I’ll take the couch.”

Her huff is a physical force against his neck and he swallows hard.

“I’m not gonna stay for the nonexistent superiority of your bed to mine, Jones.”

Her lips drag up and over the edge of his jaw and now he wishes he’d trimmed the damn beard more carefully so he could feel her better. But at the same time he can’t-

A few hours ago he didn’t think he’d ever risk getting even the smallest taste of Emma Swan. But then she had to go and talk about _adventures._ The bloody _lifelong_ kind. And now the taste of Emma Swan is a very real thing and he doesn’t think he can take much more than learning how to kiss her right now. His poor old heart might just give out on them both.

“Hey.”

His eyes focus on her and bloody hell, she looks worried now and he makes a conscious effort of relaxing his muscles. The way her fingers are gently massaging behind his ears kind of helps.

“I just want to wake up and have breakfast with you tomorrow before I have to go to work. That could be it.”

He swallows. Breathes in. Breathes out. He leans into her and kisses her gently.

And Emma positively melts into him and he doesn’t know how this is his world now, how on earth _she_ is in his world now.

///

But falling asleep on his couch and waking up in her bed can’t be it forever. Killian almost wishes for one of those romcom montages that tell you what happens but actually show you close to nothing.

Because Emma is a strong, heathy, hot blooded woman in her early 30’s and, logical or not, she is attracted to him. And he can tell she wants more than cuddling up to his pyjama-clad back every night. And he bloody wants more too. He wants everything.

Except disappointment. Gods, he doesn’t want to disappoint her.

And he was never one of those chiseled, perfect specimens but he could occasionally pass a mirror and smirk cockily. And now all he can focus on are the greying hairs on his chest and freckles and blotches on his shoulders and the unnatural slickness of the scars on his forearm and the softness around his stomach and the cigarette burns that his father would occasionally give him and the ugly scar a Navy doctor left on his right thigh and… he can’t bear to disappoint her like he disappoints himself.

So he gets her grilled cheese sandwiches and single roses Moe charges him triple for and gives her foot massages in front of his fireplace and lets her choose all the colours for the boat he is working on and consciously doesn’t give her the one thing she seems to want the most.

So he goes sailing to feel in control and to feel both that recklessness and confidence that his younger self seemed to have in spades. And he dislocates his bloody shoulder.

“I thought one of the perks of dating older guys was that they’re not fucking idiots.”

“No, Swan, that’s dating women.”

“Mm, tried that once.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“Nope. You don’t deserve it.”

“Come on, Emma, love, I’m bedridden-“

“You are not bedridden, you have a dislocated left shoulder and a split eyebrow.”

“Which is one of my few remaining assets-“

“And I wanted you to take me out on one of those stupid boats.”

That sobers him right up. He’d never-

“You must know I’d be much more careful with you on board.”

She huffs and maneuvers herself in his lap with amusing faux-reluctance.

“Yes. But now it’s not happening anytime soon, is it.”

He swears Emma reads every single article the internet has on treatment and recovery after his shoulder has been popped back in place. She insists on this bloody cold therapy and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that she gets to see him half-naked without there being any sexual context to it.

At least there isn’t any within the first two weeks. Until that time when the ice is melting against his warm skin and trailing down his back and instead of grabbing a towel she just puts her mouth where the moisture is and eventually the ice drops to the floor and her arms slip around him and find his nipples with startling accuracy and eagerness and he tries to turn around but she just shushes him and scolds him not to twist or move too quickly and he knows she’ll never risk re-injuring him but-

“Bloody hell, woman.”

He can swear under oath that her mouth is the eighth wonder of the New World. Which means her hands must be the ninth.

But she takes pity on him and lets him calm his breathing with her cheek pressed firmly to his back and her hands running soothingly down his sides. And when he – slowly, carefully – turns around he kisses her with all the promises he hopes he can keep.

///

It’s one of _those_ stories.

So sometimes he feels like he can never get the pace of their relationship just right. So he just blurts it out over scrambled eggs one morning when she is sliding her foot up his leg too innocently and flashing him a particularly beautiful smile. And her eyes go impossibly wide and impossibly bright and she practically climbs in his lap, almost forgetting the three more weeks his shoulder needs, and kisses the newly risen daylights out of him. But then she leaves for work and all he can focus on is how she _didn’t_ say it back and _what on earth was he even thinking_? Until by 3pm he has gone a hundred rounds with the doubts in his head and comes home from the docks with his first bottle of rum in more than four years. And when she burst in two hours latter – flushed and out of breath and alternating “I love you!”s and “I’m sorry!”s without air inbetween and babbling about how she has thought it for so long that she forgot she hasn’t _said_ it, he is nothing if not ashamed of himself. But she is a miracle and she is not ashamed of him and just makes him drink two glasses of water and an aspirin and he steadies himself in her embraces and focuses his mind on her fingers in his hair and her “my love”s and the way she never averts her eyes from his even once.

It’s one of _those_ stories.

So most of his fears come true. The first time he sees Emma completely naked he literally falls down on his knees and he should’ve worshipped her properly then and there but she wants to be _with_ him first and she wants him naked and she wants to touch him and he is a simple man and just wants her to have everything she wants. And by now he knows what it feels like when Emma says “I love you” and when she says he is cute and handsome and striking and _her favourite everything_ (and he may have had a vain spell at some point in his life but he has certainly never been anyone’s favourite anything, let alone _everything_ ) and half a dozen other things, half of which he is certainly not. And for some reason he thought he’d be quiet and she’d be loud, maybe it’s just what he hoped. But instead he can’t seem to stop telling her how light she is and how soft and how warm and other ridiculous things – like her every mole being a little miracle – fall from his mouth. And she never fails to stun him and somehow, even after all this time of waiting, he is not prepared for how gentle her fingers are when they pass over one of the burns on the inside of his elbow and how her hair feels dragging over his abdomen and curtaining his whole world and how soft and full of wonder her sighs are and he certainly doesn’t expect the “I’ll never hurt you” that she whispers against his skin. So he blames how little he lasts on how bloody safe she makes him feel and how he has never in his entire life felt like someone won’t turn their back on him no matter what. But soon… soon he knows how to undo her with merely his lips on her and he learns the angles that positively make her meow. And, contrary to what he expected, once she gets him naked she is hard to convince to let him be anything but.

It’s one of _those_ stories.

So Killian honestly loses track of how many hours he spends wondering exactly how good of a father and a partner he is and can ever be. Going over and over every single thing he can’t do with one hand and over and over every single sport he might be too old to play in ten years, and over and over and over even the most ridiculously unnecessary things he wants to be able to afford shall Emma or their child ever want them. But then not one of those things, or all of them combined, compares to Emma’s delight when kissing her is his first order of business every time he comes through the door, to her little squeal when she finds a crib mobile with ducklings and boats on it and to every little cliché she never had that makes her giddy (and he makes sure she never – not for one second – feels silly or embarrassed because of it). He feels so unprepared and so afraid and so undeserving sometimes. But none of those feelings compare to the feeling of Emma squeezing his hand when they hear their baby's heartbeat for the first time. None compare to the way she wraps her arms around his neck when he tries to get out of their bed too early and hangs on for ages as if this is the place where she lives now – draped over his back, her nose buried in the hair curling slightly at the back of his neck. None compare to getting to lay his head on her rounded stomach and sing lullabies he hardly knew he remembered and hear the way her voice catches when she tells him she can’t believe their kid is so lucky already. None compare to the way she looks at him and talks about him to Elsa from upstairs as if _she_ is the one that won the bloody life lottery, as if she is the one getting to live out a dream she never even dared to dream. But then… maybe she is. And he is so very glad she didn’t have to wait as long as him. And then – not one thing has ever or will ever compare to the first time his daughter opens her eyes and looks up at him.

Maybe it is one of _those_ stories. But he is so damn glad to be wrong about where it ends.


	3. Not Even A Story, just the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Washing his hands, he prays to all the gods he recently renounced that Emma has gone back to sleep in the three minutes that he has managed to occupy himself in the bathroom.
> 
> The gods are either still unhappy with him or completely blind to his existence. Story of his bloody life. Not even a story, just the truth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This kind of just came to me and then seemed to fit perfectly here.  
> So I also wanna use the chance to say a massive THANK YOU to everyone who keeps leaving incredible feedback for this story - you fill my heart with pure joy!

He’s been dreaming of muffins for the last three nights.

Killian rubs at his eyes, not even trying to recall the ludicrous dream. He likes nothing better than a calm, dreamless night of rest but compared to the contents of his dreams – nightmares – throughout most of his not so short life, some confectionaries were nothing to complain about. Though he suspects their presence in his dreams has something to do with his Swan’s current preference for the baked goods.

Speaking of said force of nature. Killian glances to his left, his arm trapped under a whole lot of Emma. He’d much prefer to just curl around her further rather than try to extract himself from the warmth and softness that is his love in the middle of the night – not to mention the expanse of skin that is revealed to his sleep-heavy eyes, her top having twisted down and around until it rests just below her nipples.

But one of the side effects of over-sugared dreams seems to be thirst. That and other calls of nature.

So with a resigned sigh and a bare-minimum of brain awakeness, Killian extracts himself from Emma and the single sheet she tolerates in their bed and makes his way to the bathroom.

In hindsight he should have just used the toilet before he had some water. It might have been bareable then, he might have been able to forget about how much he needs to pee and go back to bed.

As is happens, Killian has a glass of water first, then he pulls the string on his sleep pants with the confidence and impatience of a man who very much wants to be back in his bed. A man who now has a nasty knot to undo. With one hand.

“Bloody hell,” he puts the toilet cover down more violently than is necessary and cringes, glancing back to the bedroom and listening carefully for any signs that he has woken Emma.

Silence. The gods have not forsaken him entirely.

Or so he thinks. But with each passing minute in which he is _not_ succeeding in undoing the bloody knot on his pants, he is staring to believe more and more in a godless universe.

Killian Jones can undo almost any knot known to a sailor. Killian Jones can’t unto his bloody pants in order to pee.

“Bloody buggering-“

This is all Elsa’s fault. She gave him these stupid pajamas. As if it isn’t enough that they have little swans on them (which he found admittedly adorable at the time but is now growing more and more convinced that the birds are staring at him from the fabric with conspiratorial evil in their eyes), they have to be operated with two hands as well. Emma always buys the ones that have an elastic.

Then again, maybe it is all Emma’s fault, she was the one who convinced him that people who don’t live alone in complete rejection of society make consistent use of sleepwear. A fact he accepted with minimal resistance once upon a time and is now coming to regret his easy conversion.

No, truly, it is all society’s fault, with all it’s ridiculous conventions and-

“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!”

It is all his own fucking fault that he can’t undo his own fucking pants.

At this point Killian is sitting on the tiled floor of their bathroom, his head leaning on the wall beside the toilet. His skin burns where he has been angrily tugging at the damn string. He is half-convinced this is just a really fucked up dream. He is tempted to bang his head against the tiles. Except that will definitely wake Emma.

Except he needs to wake Emma anyway. His frustration is not having any sort of relaxing effect on his bladder.

Killian chuckles under his breath.

“You’ve been in a lot of questionable positions, old man, but this takes the bloody cake,” he gives into his desires an inch and taps his head against the wall behind him. “Pathetic.”

Eyes closed, head back, knees bent in front of him and his nails digging into his useless left forearm, he can’t help but think that this isn’t such a low point in his life. Not even close.

He is sitting in his own bathroom – a rather nice one, if he does say so himself, a small tub in the corner and a lavender soap that makes the whole room smell lovely, in his and Emma’s apartment, the gorgeous woman herself sleeping just a room away in _their_ bed, pregnant with his _child_.

No, this is the highest point of his entire existence, that is for sure.

And yet, this moment definitely feels like a low point.

It is probably a good thing that Killian Jones has vast experience with low points. He knows exactly where to pinch his nose so the stinging in his eyes will retreat, knows exactly how to square his shoulders, how to get his feet under him and push off the ground, he even knows – much as he loathes to admit it – how to swallow his pride and face his failure.

He is going to be a father soon. He is afraid he’ll be doing a lot of that.

Killian goes back into the bedroom and swallows three times before the facts manage to go down. He is a 50-year-old, grown-ass man, who served in the Navy and who is about to awake his 5-months pregnant girlfriend in the middle of the night because he needs to use the bathroom.

“Emma.”

Since she is obviously still asleep, he rolls his own eyes at himself. Emma doesn’t exactly wake from a whisper and he damn well knows that.

Killian kneels by the bed and gently shakes her by the shoulder.

“Swan.”

“Mmhm?”

Progress.

“Emma, love, I’m really sorry but I need you to wake up just for a second.”

“No wanna.”

He bites back a grin. If only the occasion were any different, he’ll probably be amused. Except it isn’t. So Killian sighs and squares his bloody shoulders again and stops whispering like the child he is being.

“Swan, I just need your help for a second. Just a second, love.”

“Wha’? What is it?”

One of Emma’s hands swipes impatiently at the hair in her face and he is finally met with a pair of green eyes. Albeit barely opened.

“I need you to undo my pants.”

“Huh? What?”

“I just.. I need you to undo my pants.”

Emma groans. All in all, he can’t say there is a more appropriate reaction.

“Killian, I swear to god, if you just woke me up for a stupid innuendo-“

“No, Swan, I… I genuinely need you to undo my pants. I…uhhh, I need to use the bathroom and the knot got… extra… knoty.”

Fabulous. Now he is losing the ability to speak properly. If he’d only start shrinking as well, she won’t need to wait another four months to have a baby.

Emma blinks up at him, her eyes opening a little wider each time.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He is trying really _really_ hard not to look away from those eyes he loves so much.

“Oh, ok.”

She raises herself and shuffles into a semi-sitting position.

It probably says a lot about the amount of mortification his blood is pumping through his veins at this moment since he barely feels anything when Emma puts her hands on his hips and pulls him toward herself, her eyes glancing up at him in a manner that he might have classified as flirtatious, if there was anything about this situation that could be classified as sexy or funny.

Well, he supposes an argument could be made for funny. He can just picture it, the widow Lucas would laugh for days, if she could see this, and promptly tell Emma ‘I told you so’.

Emma, who actually seems quite focused now, genuinely struggling with the knot he managed to create during his many failed attempts or perhaps politely pretend-struggling. It isn’t her style but he won’t put it past her right now.

“There.”

Ah.

“Thanks.”

She looks back up at him. Not amused, not expectant, not anything. And Killian knows the appropriate course of action – he still really needs to pee – but he seems frozen to the spot by sheer embarrassment alone. She leans forward, her hands back at his sides and kisses his hip bone. He sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t-“

But he just kisses her quickly and just as quickly walks out.

The bathroom door clicks firmly behind him.

Washing his hands, he prays to all the gods he recently renounced that Emma has gone back to sleep in the three minutes that he has managed to occupy himself in the bathroom.

The gods are either still unhappy with him or completely blind to his existence. Story of his bloody life. Not even a story, just the truth.

Killian moves as quietly and gets into bed as gracefully as possible, even though he can feel that Emma is still awake, his suspicions confirmed when she shuffles closer and throws a leg over him, wrapping herself around his left arm, much like she was when he woke up what feels like half a night ago.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Shhh, don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I didn’t want to wake you-“

“I know but now that I _am_ awake and your pants _are_ undone…”

Killian turns to look at the woman beside him, raising an eyebrow.

“I did tie those back, you know? I can still do _that_ apparently.”

Emma’s soft hum smooths over his bitter tone, her lips finding his pulse point with inimitable and intimate accuracy.

“Well, luckily for you, I’m something of an expert at… undoing them,” she whispers, putting words into actions. “… and you, I like to think.”

At that he can’t help but groan in agreement, rolling over to face her properly as her hand goes above and beyond just undoing the string on his pajamas. Or rather – below and beyond.

“I thought you didn’t want to be awoken for an innuendo,” he mutters along the side of her breast, taking her own sleepwear, that she apparently tugged into place while he was in the bathroom, and pulling it back down, stretching the straps and revealing her dark and erect nipples.

“That was half-awake Emma speaking. She can be very rash sometimes. You should take everything she says with a pinch of- ah!“

Killian is rather proud of timing the pinch to her nipple just right.

“These still sensitive?”

“In a good way.”

His tongue wraps around the hard flesh, Emma’s mews of pleasure something out of a dream and his reality at the same time.

“Oh. Damn. I never cared for this.”

He freezes with his lips wrapped around her nipple, his hand on the pronounced bump of her abdomen. The minx has the gall to giggle as if she hasn’t just completely thrown him off any game he might have.

“No, I mean before, with-“ her hand sneaks through his hair and starts to rub the back of his neck, urging him to continue with his ministrations. “Before you.”

He bites down lightly in admonishment and is promptly reminded that the woman still has her other hand wrapped around his cock. With a few parting licks his nose skims over the underside of her breast and keeps heading south until she is forced to release him with a little whine that he can’t help but grin at.

“I’m sure I changed your world, Swan.”

“You say that like it’s not 100% true.”

“Mmm,” his stubble scratches the soft skin above her thighs. “I meant in bed.”

“You say that like it’s not 100% true,” she repeats and he tries not to feel too good about it (it’s definitely not _100%_ true) but it’s damn hard.

Emma has a way of making him feel like she knows all sorts of things that he is unable to see for himself and occasionally she is generous enough to share them with him.

She has a way of making him feel good about himself in a way that no one ever has.

Killian figures the least he can do is make her feel just as good. He runs his lips over what is truly Emma’s Achilles heel and feels the whole bed vibrate with her breathless laughter.

“Stop teasiiing.”

He laughs lowly before he secures her heel at his shoulder blade and dives between her legs like a man on a mission. And he is.

Much as he’d like to fuck the beautiful woman that shares his bed all night every night, he is not 30 anymore. But this? He likes to think he’s only gotten better at this particular dance – her strong thighs on either side of him, her tiny feet digging almost painfully into his shoulders, her hands lacking all self-consciousness as she tugs on his hair. He has developed patience, Emma has inspired devotion. He can do this all night, feel her pleasure and prolong his own all with the strokes of his rough fingertips and his diligent tongue.

“Fuck, fuck. Damn. Oh, damn, Killian.”

He also really likes it when Emma is the one talking. Even if she rarely gets past the expletives.

“Fuck, Killian. Pleeease.”

She doesn’t really need to ask.

He stays where he is until she has come and then come down and then come back to her senses and then come to the conclusion that she wants him back up with his lips on hers and his cock inside her and-

“Baby. Should go slow ‘cause of the baby,” he manages to get out while she kicks those offending pants off him.

“It’s okay, don’t have to slow it down for at least a few more months.”

“Bloody hell. I was hoping to get a respite from your insatiable nature.”

The privilege of having two hands – she can wrack her nails down his back and whack him upside the head at the same time.

“You’re such an ass.”

“Indeed but you keep telling me otherwise.”

“I’m-oooh, yes, I’m, yes, telling you to move- oh, move faster now.”

He grunts in agreement.

“Insatiable, I tell you.”

His movements start getting sloppy but when he reaches down Emma’s hand is already there so he just settles his on her stomach and drops his forehead to hers, hair and sweat and breaths mingling until all he can feel is how they are sliding into each other in every way possible.

“Fuck, Emma-“

She rolls them over somewhat clumsily and rides him out until Killian is sure he loses a few seconds here and there in almost-blackouts.

But when he opens his eyes there is golden hair all around him and he can feel Emma’s warm breath on his skin, her tongue doing something wicked to his collarbone that she has no business doing when they are both already so sweaty he can’t imagine falling back asleep in those sheets.

“What time is it, love?”

“We-can-sleep-for-another-two-hours-then-do-this-again-and-then-get-up-for-muffins o’clock.”

“I think I’ll have to look up something stronger than ‘insatiable’.”

“Mhm, tomorrow, my love.”

“It’s already tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

So much for changing the sheets.

“Swan?”

She smacks her lips in what might be considered a response.

“You don’t like sleeping naked.”

“Imma naked Killian.”

He shakes his head, smiling like a fool.

“You’d be a fool not to smile, Jones,” he tells himself.

And Emma might grumble as he moves away to gather her clothes but she barely registers as he dresses her and sighs happily once her head is back on a pillow and her legs snug between his own.

He’ll have to put his own pants back on when he goes to fetch her muffins and cocoa in a few hours. Yeah, pants can wait until then.

 


	4. One of Those Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian Jones hasn’t had the best of lives. Not up to a certain point at least. He has probably had one of the worse ones. Yet it is remarkable how often he has looked at the world around him, looked at his own state but also at that of others’ and thought he didn’t want one of those lives.
> 
> But don’t worry, this isn’t a story about that. Quite the opposite in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m writing fic for the O’Donocrew Fundraising for BC Children’s hospital. @laschatzi was so sweet as to request an addition to this verse. (also I can absolutely not stay away from this so there will probably be some more soon-ish ;)

Killian Jones hasn’t had the best of lives. Not up to a certain point at least. He has probably had one of the worse ones. Yet it is remarkable how often he has looked at the world around him, looked at his own state but also at that of others’ and thought he didn’t want one of those lives.

But don’t worry, this isn’t a story about that. Quite the opposite in fact.

///

“Are you sure you’re not gonna use these?”

“Mhm. They are too old and they don’t really go with… my style or whatever.”

That’s true enough. He can hardly imagine Emma applying the make-up balanced precariously on his knee – little circles of purple and pink eyeshadow that cannot compare to the darker, smokier tones that she uses when she has the patience and the inclination for it. Still he hesitates. He supposes it’s the grown-up in him, the ingrained aversion to messiness that we develop when we learn that after a certain age we are the ones who have to clean up afterwards.

Only he knows he will gladly do the clean up afterwards this time.

“Come on, my love. Paint me like one of your boats.”

She giggles at her own joke and he only semi-regrets letting her put on Titanic a couple of nights ago. His manly pride is still slightly bruised from his own sniffling.

But then he swirls his pointer finger in the light pink and traces in down Emma’s spine in a slightly curved line and the way she shivers beneath him more than restores some of that pride.

They have always liked a bit of a mess.

///

“Why are your towels everywhere but on the hanger in the bathroom?”

“For the same reason your socks are everywhere but in the sock drawer, I suppose.”

“Don’t get cute with me, Jones. I’m annoyed.”

“Which is precisely why I’m trying to “get cute with you” as you so flatteringly put it.”

“Asshole.”

“I heard that.”

“Well, I said it pretty loudly.”

///

Living with someone after you’ve been by yourself for years on end is not easy. Mind, it’s worth it but it sure as hell ain’t easy.

Surprisingly enough, sometimes he thinks it’s harder on Emma than on himself. Yes, he has lived longer and he has lived _alone_ longer but he never really got much comfort out of it. It was more imposed exile rather than chosen solitude.

Emma, on the other hand, he can tell, liked having her own space, being queen of her little castle, having the last say in what happened in her apartment. And he likes to think that she hasn’t lost all of that. She is still very much queen of her castle, along with being his queen in every sense that counts. True, none of it is only her own space now and she doesn’t _always_ have the last say-

So he likes to get out of her hair from time to time, let her have the place to herself.

Emma quickly decided that jogging was not the pregnancy-friendly activity for her. And Killian- well, Killian may or may not be trying to regain some of his post-Navy shape.

He has heard theories that people eat more when they are alone, trying to fill up the emptiness or whatever. But he has discovered, much to his chagrin and dismay, that he eats more when he is happy. And he has been very, very happy as of late. And very out of shape even before the happiness set in.

Hence the jogging. It allows Emma to have their apartment to herself every other morning while she gets ready for her day and it helps him to keep from giving his pregnant girlfriend a run for her money.

He likes running in the park, likes nodding to the other people working out all around, likes inhaling the smell of greenery in the mornings – it contrasts nicely with the smell of the ocean that clings to him in the evening after a day at the docks. He always stops to catch his breath at the same bench beside the same football field.

Today there is an attractive woman in an undeniably expensive tracksuit on the bench beside his. But what catches Killian’s eye is the man limping toward her from the football field. The guy seems about his age, though in much superior shape and decked out in equally appropriate and expensive sportswear. It would almost make Killian self-conscious of his faded shorts and the old hoodie that just about hides his stump, if either of them was paying him any attention. As it is, they both seem much too busy snapping at each other.

“Well, it’s what you get for trying to keep up with those guys half your age.”

The comment doesn’t seem to affect the man who fires back something equally snarky as he packs his things, favouring his leg.

Killian is a grown man, probably due for a mid-life crisis soon, and he is not proud that he still can’t control the way his stomach knots whenever he hears a couple snapping at each other. It sends him right back to a small bed in a small room and his small self with his head buried under a pillow, desperately trying to block out his parents. Even then he knew one thing for certain – he never wanted one of those lives. Now he is even more certain that he doesn’t want it for his own child.

He doesn’t know if it speaks more of his own insecurities or the importance of Emma’s opinion to him but he is sure he wouldn’t have been able to brush off such a comment from her. Then again, while at one point he fully expected it, now he almost can’t imagine Emma looking at him with the kind of distaste that woman seems to have for her husband.

Killian gets up and heads back in the direction he came from. No, Emma gets a much, _much_ different expression when he comes back from a run and seeing it in his mind’s eye only makes him run home faster.

///

He loves boats, always has. Loves how fragile they look and yet how shockingly resilient they are. Loves the freedom they embody, the elegant yet simple shape of them.

He doesn’t particularly love his job at the docks. It’s hard work but it’s flexible, it’s monotonous but it pays well enough that Emma won’t have to rush back to work after their baby is born. That one is really all that matters. That’s what he thinks at least. That’s why he is so damn confused by her right now.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you just let your mind wander, what would you choose?”

“I don’t really see the point of the exercise, love.”

“The _point_ is to find out what it is that you truly want to do.”

He sighs. He knows she means well, he hopes it’s not-

“Swan… I loved the Navy. Then it more or less broke my heart. Boston’s harbor is decent and I get to tinker with boats and ships here and there to break the selfsameness of the days. I’m alright. We’re alright.”

_Isn’t that what’s most important?_

“I know, I just think… I don’t know. I don’t think you let yourself think about it.”

“Well, I think it’s a bit too late to think about it.”

She opens her mouth to protest but he powers on.

“And now is most certainly not the time.”

///

“That was Elsa,” Emma says when she hangs up the phone and tosses it toward the coffee table in front of them.

It skitters and stops on the very edge and she lets out a little ‘woop!’ of triumph and he tries not to encourage her with his smile, pretends to keep his attention on the book in his hand and his stump running up and down her calf.

“For once she has the weekend off and wants to go get some coffee or ice-cream or whatever.”

He hums and nods and apparently that is not all that is required of him.

“So?”

Killian finally looks up, craning his neck so he can look at Emma with her head leaning against the couch next to his shoulder.

“So?”

“So do you want to?”

“Oh, I’m sure you two want to have some “girl-time” as you call it.”

She rolls her eyes at him but then her expression grows serious.

“You know Elsa likes you, right?”

He hums in semi-agreement.

“Of course, love.”

She looks at him long and hard and eventually he sighs and turns around so he is facing her, her legs still draped over his lap.

“Elsa is lovely and we are on perfectly good terms but as you said, she rarely gets time off and I’m sure you’ll enjoy catching up and getting her all to yourself for a bit.”

It’s Emma’s turn to hum, semi-agreement and all, but she is still giving him a look that makes him want to squirm like a bloody schoolboy.

“And what are you gonna do?”

He lifts his book demonstratively and them lets it drop back on top of her legs. The response does not seem to please her too much.

“Swan,” he sighs. “You know I don’t require much socializing.”

“Neither do I but you are kinda riding below the bare minimum, Killian.”

“Perhaps I’ll get a pint with Smee after work this week to put your mind at ease.”

“It’s not my ease I’m worried about.”

“Then I can assure you I will be perfectly at ease in our home with a cup of tea and the company of Mr Hemingway while you are out.”

She lets it go as she gets up to get ready yet he can’t help but fear that he has disappointed her somehow.

///

“Hey.”

“Emma, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I’ll be home in like 15 minutes. I was near August’s place and thought I’d spot by for those things he mentioned.”

He feels his hand clamp tighter on the phone but makes an effort to keep his voice light.

“Alright. Well, the curry is getting cold so hurry up.”

She hums in approval as he ends the call and Killian tries to hang on to that sound.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Emma. It’s not even that he doesn’t trust August. He is probably the only ex of Emma’s that he hasn’t heard anything bad about. It’s not… He’s not even jealous per say. It’s just this nagging feeling that he has been having the last couple of weeks.

August called to say that he was moving soon and had found some things of Emma’s. That’s why the story of him was even brought up. For a writer and a bailbonds person it was a rather mundane story indeed. They’d broken up right before Emma moved to Storybrooke and nothing suggested that it was some grand love that she had been running from. A year-long relationship, a couple of cool roadtrips, not much passion and then an amicable break-up. Even for Killian it was almost impossible to feel threatened by a story like that.

But then the last few weeks… He can’t help but wonder if August’s reintroduction into Emma’s life, however brief, has prompted some of their recent conversations.

August is a writer and from what Killian has heard he loves what he does above all else, it is the one thing he always wanted to do. And, honestly, the one thing Killian always wanted to do was this – find someone to love with all his heart and hopefully, maybe, diminishingly likely and then somehow possibly again, find someone to love him back.

His parents didn’t make enough for him to have the freedom of too much fantasizing as a young boy and he joined the Navy barely out of school and then that left him too hurt and exhausted to consider what he had actual zeal for.

And now- He has tried very hard not to think about the things Emma Swan deserves that he can’t possibly give her. He has tried very hard to focus on the ones that he can – the things he can change, acquire, work on, work for; the ways he can be better.

And he can’t believe it’s the first time he considers that she deserves, maybe actively wants, a man who has a passion for something, a career, a calling. And it’s just another thing that he doesn’t feel he can give her.

///

Emma picks up on his somber mood. Of course she does. And she goes on this whole spiel about how August is just a friend now and very aware that she is very “happily taken” and how that’s quite obvious really.

And he smiles and presses his nose to her stomach and spends the rest of the night telling their daughter made-up stories and focusing on the feeling of Emma’s hand in his hair and not wondering if and how she could be happier still.

///

Killian and Emma seem to work on the same wavelength most of the time. Considering their difference in age and temperament, he is always gratified when they immediately see eye to eye about something. Even more so when it’s something considering their child.

So when Emma agrees to go on desk duty as soon as they find out she’s pregnant, Killian can’t help but let out a relieved sigh and hug her tight, pouring his gratitude in kisses all over her head.

But desk duty means more regular hours so it’s an empty apartment that he is rushing through to find his wallet, Emma already off to work as he should be any minute now. Except he is getting desperate and running out of places to look.

In the future Killian would come back to this moment and think that it was all about the damn timing. Meaning that Emma got her things from August a mere two days ago and he came home late last night and she was already asleep and they barely saw each other for 10 minutes this morning and-

Really it’s all circumstantial and he has no excuse.

But as he roughly pulls out one of Emma’s drawers after checking all of his own and the little box rolls to the front, he physically cannot stop himself from opening it and he physically can’t stop himself from connecting the two wedding rings inside with _getting her things from August a mere two days ago_.

He goes out without his wallet.

///

That proves to be somewhat beneficial. He likes to think, he likes to think he _knows_ , that he wouldn’t have had more than a beer no matter what but the fact that Smee is buying just solidifies it and Killian decides to let this one thing work in his favour.

Now, he is not 20 and he is not an idiot, he is not jumping to (any more) conclusions or staying out all night or anything like that. He texted Emma that he will be a couple of hours late right after finishing his shift and he is about to finish his beer and head home.

It’s what he is supposed to do after that, how much he is supposed to share with the love of his life, that has him on uneven ground.

You are supposed to be able to tell everything to the love of your life, right? You are supposed to know if you are the love of their life as well, right?

///

They don’t have an elevator. He doesn’t care what Emma says, in another month or so, the only way she is going up those stairs is in his arms. Now he goes up the stairs on his own. It’s why he hears the couple on the second floor. He can hear them yelling at each other all the way in the bloody hallway and his stomach feels like it’s the size of a grape. He takes the stairs two at a time.

That’s probably why Emma looks so worried when she comes out to greet him and sees him braced against the door, breathing heavily.

“Killian?!”

In the next moment her hands are on his face, smoothing the hair away from his forehead and her eyes are flickering anxiously between his own and gods, now he’s gone and made her worry, but he can’t keep from gathering her in his arms and pressing his face to her neck, trying to breathe her in.

“I don’t wanna be like that. I don’t wanna be like that, Emma.”

“Shhh, it’s alright. We’ll figure it out. You’ll tell me and we’ll figure it out.”

He feels her push his jacket off his shoulders and he kicks off his shoes so she doesn’t go and take those off for him as well. Then he follows her to their bedroom.

He tries to start from somewhere but she shushes him just like he knows she will. He gets… he gets anxious about things, from time to time, not too often, he hopes. Emma has this thing – she just crawls into his lap and doesn’t really let him start before she has kissed him about three dozen times. Everywhere she can reach skin without removing any clothes.

His hair is shorter than it was when they met two years ago, neater though with a bit more grey in it now. But it still curls up behind his ear, right where Emma’s nose is buried now. He’s been too close to some fish shipments today and ran home way too fast for that to be pleasant but she seems very unwilling to leave more than an inch between them.

By the time her hands and lips stop running over his face and shoulders and arms, he feels warm and much more settled than he could’ve imagine feeling after this morning.

“Now,” she pulls back and runs the tip of her nose over the length of his. “Wanna tell me?”

He takes a breath. There are a few things. He surprises himself with what comes out first.

“I don’t want to be one of those couples. The ones that force their kid to hide in his room, trying to tune them out, or run between them, getting right in the middle of it, hoping his mere presence will make them stop.”

He did that as well. It never helped. Sometimes it made it worse.

“What? Why would you-,” Emma shakes her head. “Killian, my love, you’ve had like 4 proper fights in two years, I don’t think we – or our kids – are in danger of that.”

“Our kids?”

He can’t help the breathless chuckle, the surprise. Emma just waves her hand around, her face adorable and all scrunched up.

“One thing as a time. I’ll probably be too old after-“

“ _You_ will be too old?”

Now she is rolling her eyes at him.

“Your age does not impact your baby-making abilities. Anyway. Whatever, I just meant generally. You never know and all that.”

You never know. Gods above. He used to know. He used to be certain none of this was going to be part of his life. Then she came along and now he gets to _talk to someone_ when he is worried about something and she gets to talk to him and they get to talk about _kids_ , they are _having_ a kid.

He can’t quite remember what it was that could possibly be wrong with this world that he has found himself in.

“Killian, you look like… for more than a week now, you look like I’ve given you something unchewable to eat. Is this it? Cuz we’re not… we’re not like that. I mean… I don’t bottle stuff up, nothing is gonna explode someday soon and have me yelling at you non-stop, you know?”

He knows. He _knows,_ he just-

“Are… are you? Are you bottling stuff up? Because I’m pregnant and you don’t want to pick a fight or-”

Bloody hell.

“No. Emma, love, of course not. I’m… I’m not bottling anything up. I mean… it’s not you.”

“So it’s you.”

She huffs.

He considers trying to explain but… well, she did hit the nail on the head. So he just nods.

She huffs again, more audible now.

“OK, you’re gonna tell me exactly what this is about because I value your feelings and everything but I’m 90% sure it’s bullshit.”

As crucial and emotional as this moment feels, he can’t help but roll his eyes at this. Emma Swan – never one to beat around the bush.

As if he could ever think that she will be annoyed with him and bottle it up. Perhaps it’s time he took a page out of her book.

“Do you wish I… do you wish I had a better job? And more friends and all that?”

And just like that silence reigns supreme in their bedroom. Just like that he realizes his eyes have fallen away from Emma’s because when he looks at her there’s a new expression on her face – pensive and uncertain.

Fuck. She does.

“I do.”

In a sudden moment of clarity, Killian Jones realizes exactly how much he has come to depend on the fact that Emma will unfailingly dispel his fears. It seems that, against all sense and reason, he has almost convinced himself that there won’t come a time when she won’t do so. And then here it is.

“Fuck. Wait, Killian, don’t- Just let me explain, ok?”

He nods but he can’t really look at her. And then she moves off his lap and he thinks that hurts even more than anything she could say. But she spreads her legs so that they are on either side of him, her toes just brushing his sides, and she grabs a hold of his feet and he looks at her hands, focusing on the way she seems to hold on to him to keep the pressure off her waist as she sits across from him.

“Please, look at me and listen before going off with this, ok?”

“Swan, it’s alright, I-“

“No, just listen, ok? Just listen for a minute.”

She shakes his feet a bit, probably to stress her point of wanting his attention on her and somehow, beyond all reason, despite the fact that they are having a conversation he is pretty terrified of, he almost smiles.

“Killian, I’m…” she looks at him so imploringly, if she told him she was the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming right now, he would believe her. “I’m so happy.”

That, he is glad to note, is not that hard to believe after all and this time he does smile. If Emma is happy, if she is here, clutching onto his big toes, surely everything else can be sorted out?

“And it’s like… it’s you and us and our baby and, _of course_ \- but it’s also… I never really got into the sheriffing gig and I’ve been so happy to be back and hell, I’m even alright with doing desk duty right now because it feels like I’m getting shit done here. And then I love this place and I love living with you and I have Elsa now and August-“ she cuts herself off and gives him that look again. “But if you don’t want me to-“

“It’s ok,” he says and realizes he means it too. “It’s alright, I’d never begrudge you having friends, love.”

“I know! I know, Killian, I just… I am happy and so much of it is thanks to you and I just… I want you to be happy as well.”

His brows furrow and he surprises himself by reaching for her, grabbing her ankles on either side of him and tugging her legs tighter around him.

“How can you possibly think I’m not happy?”

“I don’t, I just… I’m not saying you can’t be happy without all those things. Fuck, I’m not saying _I_ can’t be happy without them. If I had to choose- God, Killian, I wouldn’t think for a second. I’d choose you any time, over anything and anyone. And you’ll be enough.”

It’s not something he has explicitly thought that he needed to hear but as she says it he feels his heart lurch in the best way possible, in the way it did when they got her test results at the hospital.

Emma is obviously done having only their legs as points of contact between them now and crawls back over him, bending her knees so she can sit on his legs. She furrows her brows and he is about to offer to ease any possible discomfort when she asks-

“Heavy?”

He laughs in her face and tugs her firmly into him, until he can feel her bump press against his own stomach.

“You should know I plan on carrying you up the stairs in a couple of months.”

“Like hell you are.”

He just hums his stubbornness and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Killian,” she – rather rudely, if you ask him – tugs him back up to face her. “I had a point here.”

“Mhm.”

“The point is that I don’t _have to_ choose. I can have you and I can have a job I like and I can have friends. And so can you. There is no limit to the good things you can have, my love.”

He opens his month. To protest? To say this is more than enough? More than he deserves? More than he could ever want?

“It’s just… It’s not… I don’t care what you do or how much you make or how sociable you are being. I just want you to be the happiest you can be.”

He swallows. He kisses her. She is the softest thing he has ever held in his arms. And he is certain no one has ever loved him like she does. He takes a moment to bask in that knowledge, in the certainty of it.

“Emma,” he drops his forehead to hers but then thinks better of it and pulls back so he can look at her properly. “This is the happiest I can be.”

She opens her month but he kisses her before she can make a sound. Well, she does make a sound. It’s delightful. But he shouldn’t get distracted now.

“Now, let _me_ have a go now, ok?”

She nods, though he can see that she is still readying herself for some sort of disagreement. He hopes he understands her. He hopes she can understand him.

“I would never begrudge you an ounce of your happiness, love. The fact that you’ve chosen me to be a part of it is more than… It’s everything. And I don’t mean that as- I don’t want you to feel like the entire weight of my happiness is on your shoulders, the responsibility for it.”

“I don’t. I _want_ to be what makes you happy, Killian. I just know I can’t be everything and-“

“Aye, but you _are._ Emma, I understand, I’m so happy for every single thing that makes you happy and I hope those things continue to multiply, I hope I’m here to watch more and more happiness come into your life. But my life has been very… Well, I suppose I like focusing on one thing at a time. And for quite some time, there was precious little that made me happy and _now_ -“

He tightens his hold on her.

“Now you have filled my old heart to the brim. It’s damn rusty and barely keeping up with you, to be fair.”

She laughs and it’s a bit choked but it’s also light and he hopes yet again – they’ve always understood each other.

“And don’t go thinking it will be all yours forever,” he lays his hand on her stomach and smiles teasingly. “I can already feel the new occupant moving in.”

“I think I can share.”

“Good. Because this is more happiness coming our way than I could have possibly imagined. And I’m bloody terrified but you better know that I will welcome it with open arms.”

She nods and leans forward, kissing him quickly on the cheek and pulling back to nod again and lord, how he loves this woman.

“I know.”

“I’m not turning away any happiness, Emma. I just… I don’t have the heart for anything but you two right now. And if I do in a few years – good, you will be the first to know. But, if I don’t, if you are to be the sole suns in my galaxy… well, I hope you will be ok with me orbiting around you forever.”

She shakes her head, laughing the watery laugh that he knows means he has gone overboard but she is only the happier for it.

“That’s not how it works, if you are my sun too.”

“I can be your moon.”

“Mmm, no, not good enough.”

“Not good enough?”

“Nope. Not really enough to fit you. But… I get it, I do. And I don’t want you to think- All those other things – jobs and friends and… they are just like, dunno, meteors that fly by for a bit. Nothing can compare-“

“I know,” he cups her face in his hand and makes her look at him and hear him. “I know, Swan. I don’t… having other things you love doesn’t take away from how much you love me. Just like she is not gonna take away from how much we love each other.”

Her hand falls to her stomach to meet his stump and he feels her nod into his hand. He feels her understand.

///

It’s three hours later and they’ve only left their bed for a quick trip to the kitchen when he remembers the rings.

He has his arms wrapped around her and her back against his chest and he is content in the knowledge that he could’ve asked even if she was facing him.

“Were you and August engaged?”

Which she is a second later as she twists around, her eyes wide with pure disbelief.

“ _What_? Of course not! Why would you think that? We were barely even dating properly the last months.”

“I saw the rings. I wasn’t looking, I just-“

“What ri- OH!”

Her hand flies to her mouth and if he thought her eyes were wide before they are positively about to pop out of her head now.

“Shit. You found the rings?”

“Yes, so I- OH.”

_OH._

Now he can’t even comprehend why he associated the bands with August in the first place.

They are staring at each other with identical expression of shock and their eyes are so damn wide and of course Emma is the first to crack but they are both off. They laugh themselves to literal tears though given the day he’s had, Killian thinks those might be a bit cathartic as well.

“Love, what-“

“OK, so don’t freak out on me or anything, I mean, I don’t think you will but-“

“I’m not going to “freak out", Swan. Did you-did you want to get married before…?

He reaches for where their baby sleeps within her for the hundredth time today.

“Oh! No, no. I mean… well, if you do- but, no, I’d really rather look good at my wedding-“

“Then we can get married at any given moment.”

“Ha, ha. You are very smooth all of a sudden, Mr. I-thought-you-bought-those-with-your-lackluster-boyfriend-of-years-ago.”

“I’m feeling very confident in my status as the love of your life right now, Miss Swan.”

“What since the last five minutes? Geez, great, I’ve only been trying to convince you for two years and let you get me knocked up.”

“Shhh,” he kisses her nose and her lips and any part of skin on the way down to her breasts. “I can be a little slow on the uptake. And I don’t think you can use the atrocious phrase “knocked up” when we purposefully stopped preventing babies from happening.”

Above him Emma grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “smartass”.

She shimmies down to face him again surprisingly fast for a woman about to enter her third trimester. She pinches his ear and glares at him exactly like a woman about to enter her third trimester.

“You are the love of all my lives. And, for the record, I got those before we even- you know.”

She waves in the general direction of her belly and he laughs into the dimple in her chin as he kisses her again.

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

“Sure. Cuz I figured if I waited for you to figure out I wanted to marry you, we’d _both_ be grey and old.”

“Oi!” he pinches her side and there is so much joy and mischief in her face that he does it again on her other side.

Her delightful strategy for getting him to stop is to press herself even closer. She traces her finger over his eyebrows, one after the other, then picks what he supposes is a grey strand of his hair to run between her fingers.

“Shhh, let me have my fun while I can, it won’t look nearly as good on me.”

“Nonsense.”

She kisses the word off his lips and her hands slide down his back and for a moment he forgets any rings or grey hairs. It’s delightful to see that he is still as easily distracted as he was as a child.

“When? Tell me, Swan.”

She gives him a look, as if she is debating if he deserves to know and he leans back on his pillow, confident that she will indulge him in no time. If her eyeroll is any indication, she knows exactly what he is thinking. And then the sweetest blush spreads over her cheeks and down her neck. _Now_ his interest is piqued.

“Swan?”

“It’s silly.”

Now that just won’t do. So Killian grabs his girl and drags her right on top of him. She is quick to bury her face in his chest but she should really know better than to hide from him.

“Come now, darling, I have revealed all my secrets and doubts.”

“Those are serious. This is stupid.”

“Are you implying that realizing you wish to marry me is stupid?”

She huffs and peaks up at him just enough for him to get the idea that she is glaring at him.

“The way I realized it is stupid.”

“Emma, nothing about you is stupid or silly or anything of the sort.”

She mutters something to herself that he can’t possibly hear, he just feels her breath stir the hairs on his chest and occupies himself by gathering her hair in a ponytail as well as he can with one hand, while he waits for Emma to talk herself into sharing this dreadfully “silly” secret of hers. Then the mumble gets a bit louder but not nearly enough to make out.

“What was that, my love?”

She sighs.

“I wrote your name.”

“My name?”

Heavier sigh but at least she looks up again so he can get the full force of her glare.

“I was signing some papers, I was distracted… and I wrote “Emma Jones”, ok? I wrote my name with your surname like a fifth grader.”

And back her face goes somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

It’s so far from anything he imagined that for a second he doesn’t even know what to say.

“Told you it was silly.”

In the next moment he has them rolled over so he can hover above her and look her directly in the eyes.

“It is not silly. It’s precious.”

“That’s just what you call silly people you love.”

His laughter is probably too loud for this hour of the night.

“It’s what you call people who are too good for this world. Now, hush, I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“The first boat I finished restoring after I met you?”

“Mhm?”

“I named it “the Swan”.”

Her head shots up from where he is pretty sure she was staring at his nipples.

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was silly.”

Her mouth opens and then closes and he can read it in her eyes so he just smiles and kisses her forehead.

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“It’s precious.”

///

It’s in the morning, as he slips the omelette onto her plate and drops in the chair next to her, caging her between his legs, that he tells her.

“You know I just wasn’t sure you’d want that, right?”

“I know.”

“And now that I _do_ -“

“I know.”

Her lips are greasy and her face is way too smug and he lets her kiss him three times before he tries to steal a bite of her breakfast.

He has seen couples like that in his life. One or two. Way too few for his liking and comfort. But he has seen them. The kind of couples that seem to communicate in half sentences and seemingly completely random and unprovoked kisses (Emma is a master of those and he is only too eager a recipient).

He used to see a lot of things and think he didn’t want one of those lives. He rarely dared to think about the others – the ones he did want, the few that shined bright and unique among the general distaste and misunderstanding and apathy.

He feels her greasy lips on his cheek and knows if he saw them now, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. He definitely wants one of those lives.


	5. Not One of Those Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So she never used to rent nice apartments because she knew she’d be vacating them at some point anyway. She never used to buy the extra fluffy blankets and pillows because she knew they took a lot of space when moving. She never used to get the fruit that caught her eye at the market because of some irrational fear that it will spoil before she even got the chance to eat it. She never got a dress she truly wanted to own because of the very rational fear that her next perp might ruin it to hell and the very rational assumption that she won’t be going on any dates she would want to dress up for.
> 
> Emma Swan had learnt her lesson. She didn’t get to keep things like that. Hers was not one of those lives.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll try to keep this brief (and probably fail). First, I have to thank everyone who has read and enjoyed this verse - it is most certainly my favourite thing I’ve ever written and all the love and support and excitement for it brings me so much joy and inspires me to keep adding to it. And I’ve added quite a bit - this is the most I’ve worked on a OS/part so I hope you like it and thank you - you are magical and truly my muses! 
> 
> Second, thank you to @csjanuaryjoy and everyone involved in it (especially all the gorgeous ladies in the Discord chat that has also added so much joy to my January!) - you are all so talented and inspiring and I haven’t read a single fic written for this that hasn’t melted my heart!

About 8 years into her existence Emma Swan learnt how to navigate life. From then on – well, it wasn’t _easy_ but at least it was manageable, at least she didn’t make a fool of herself and she didn’t let others make a fool of her either.

The trick was to accept that, while she might have good things from time to time, she never got to keep them. Because everyone lucked out from time to time, even Emma. It’s not statistically possible to be dealt a bad hand every single time, every day of your life. Emma caught a break on occasion as well, it’s just that her breaks never seemed to last.

A fair newborn baby girl Emma should have been out of the system in no time. And she was. And then she was back. 3 years old and carrying the damning brand of the “returned”.

She had a family – one she hadn’t even known wasn’t her own, and then she didn’t. She was a family member and then she was unsatisfactory (unneeded) merchandise. And the thing about returned merchandise is that it’s very hard to resell. You try telling people that the previous “owners” just decided to produce their own merchandise. Everybody wonders what the problem was, what was wrong with her. No one wants someone else’s sloppy seconds.

She remembers that phrase like it was thrown at her yesterday and not 27 years ago. She still perfectly recalls the curled lip of the little girl, the inflection on the words. Sloppy seconds. That was her.

It took her another year to learn that all important lesson but yes, at the ripe age of 8, Emma Swan thought she’d found the answer to her life. She watched the little blonde cherubs that had never been brought back with the receipt get into the white SUVs of their new families and knew hers was simply not one of those lives.

She watched the girls in her school showing off their pencil cases and backpacks to each other – the brands that were _in_ , with the most popular fictional characters on them. (She used the box from some colouring pens as a pencil case.) She watched the kids who sat together at recess – their lunchboxes colourful and full to the brim.

Later she watched men running around cars to open doors for their wives or girlfriends and tried to roll her eyes and scoff. (Neal ran around the Bug alright, whenever he was in a rush to get inside so they wouldn’t get caught by another guard in another convenience store.) She watched couples inside restaurants, sharing intimate smiles over candlelight.

Those pretty, colourful and well-lit lives were not hers to have.

Frankly, the system can fuck you up in a myriad of ways. Emma went through some shit but she managed to avoid the worst of it. A few hang-ups here and there are nothing to cry about, if you ask her.

So she never used to rent nice apartments because she knew she’d be vacating them at some point anyway. She never used to buy the extra fluffy blankets and pillows because she knew they took a lot of space when moving. She never used to get the fruit that caught her eye at the market because of some irrational fear that it will spoil before she even got the chance to eat it. She never got a dress she truly wanted to own because of the very rational fear that her next perp might ruin it to hell and the very rational assumption that she won’t be going on any dates she would want to dress up for.

Emma Swan had learnt her lesson. She didn’t get to keep things like that. Hers was not one of those lives.

Emma Swan is carrying a shopping bag containing a dress that she won’t fit into for at least another five months. It’s a soft pink, elegant, billowing skirt and lovely lacework at the hem. It’s a dress made for an evening out and she does not regret buying it.

What she does regret is pulling this stubborn shit on Killian and insisting that she will finish off the month and then stop going into work.

It’s December, it’s freezing, she is 7 months pregnant and she had fuck all to do at the office all day. Now her feet are cold and her back hurts and she just wants to get home and not think about life lessons that she has been gradually unlearning.

She might have bought the dress to make a point. To fate or the universe or the snotty shopping assistant that was looking at her like she’ll never fit into a dress like that again. It might have cost as much as half of all her other dresses combined. She doesn’t have that many. It’s not that bad. She was making a point.

She sighs in relief at the sight of their apartment building. Then once inside she groans at the sight of the staircase.

“Sure, let’s get the place without an elevator. Cardio is good for you. It will help us stay in shape. Ugh. Idiots.”

The fact that she actually considers calling Killian and making him come down to carry her up the stairs the way he has threatened to do a couple of times already is testament to exactly how absolutely exhausted she is. It takes her twice as long as it should to reach their door.

When she walks in, she is surprised she couldn’t feel the heat radiating off said door.

“God, Killian. What’s going on here?”

He comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hand on his sweatpants before he cups her cheek and brings her into a soft kiss.

And here we have the reason Emma Swan has gone back on the life philosophy she’d held since she was 8 years old.

Killian Jones is the very best thing that’s happened to her and she decided some time ago that she is most definitely keeping him.

Emma hums and pulls back, only to be greeted with a frown instead of the smile she was expecting.

She has a love/hate relationship with the fact that Killian never fails to greet her with a kiss when either of them comes home. Alright, mostly just a love relationship but it leaves her all melty and totally unprepared for when it turns out that he is actually in a mood.

“You’re chilled. Please tell me you took a cab home?”

She tries not to cringe and smiles innocently instead.

“I took the subway?”

“Emma.”

It’s not a whine, Killian doesn’t really do whining. It’s worse – it’s deep and gruff and a little frustrated and probably has the exact opposite effect on her to the one he was aiming for.

“I am _not_ taking the Bug out of hibernation or hailing a cab for a few blocks,” she slides into his personal space as much as her baby bump allows. “Look on the positive side, my love – you get to warm me up now.”

Killian gives her a look that clearly says that he is neither amused, not deterred.

“Oh, I will.”

He takes off her hat and murmurs his displeasure when she tries to take her coat off herself. Her scarf goes and then the coat. He glowers at her gloveless hands and she tries on another one of those innocent smiles. Nothing. Damn.

“I really gotta start preparing for the role of the fun parent,” she mutters half to herself.

Killian bends down without a comment and tugs lightly on one of her boots, only lifting her foot when her hand has settled securely on his back, leaning most of her weight on him. She furrows her brow and scrunches up her nose, wondering if her feet smell after a day in thermo socks and winter boots. They should really get one of those small shoe cupboards for the hallway – just so she can sit on them and take her own damn shoes off. She switches hands when he switches feet and can’t help but wiggle her toes happily in the soft slippers.

She is promptly taken to the couch and covered with a throw blanket.

“Really now?”

His look advises against her trying to get up. It’s only as Killian heads to the kitchen and Emma realizes how hot she is that she remembers her initial surprise.

“Why does it feel like our flat is a walk-in oven?”

“Because you were walking outside in the frigid cold for five blocks.”

“This is not human temperature,” she yells in the general direction of the kitchen even though she knows it really annoys him when she insists on having a conversation from separate rooms – she is really not helping her case.

“I assure you, Swan” his head pops around the corner and really, she’ll argue that the kitchen and living room are basically one big room anyway. “It is the outside temperature that is not advisable for humans.”

“And boiling alive is all the rage this season?”

He is gone. Emma sighs and finally fully sinks into the couch. OK, so this is not terrible for her aching back and tired feet but he really doesn’t need to know how much she hated making the trip from the subway. Or going to work in general.

She feels the movement inside her seconds before the light kicks start. Her hands settle over the spot where their baby is making her presence known.

“Is someone happy to be home?”

She twists her head around to find Killian leaning over the back the couch, his hand holding out a mug of tea. She keeps one hand on her daughter and wraps the other around the warm porcelain.

“She missed you.”

“Oh?” he struggles to go on with his teasing despite the smile that’s deepening the lines around his mouth. “Is she the only one?”

And Emma is about to pick up his tone and the little glint in his eye and tease right back, and then just like that she feels her own eyes fill with tears instead.

“No. And I’m not going into work anymore. I’m not going out at all.”

“Emma?”

He is beside her in a second, taking her mug again and setting it on the coffee table with a hasty thud before he pulls her into him. She is all too willing to bury her still cold nose in the scorching heat of his neck, her hands wrapping all the way around him.

“Shhh. Swan, what’s wrong? I’m sorry I was a pain—“

She shakes her head against him, squeezing him tighter.

“No, no, I— I was bored and restless and uncomfortable all day. And I just sat behind my stupid desk and that chair is absolute hell and my feet have been cold _all day_ and then on the way home and—“

She sniffs a little, trying to hold back the tears from actually falling. Killian has never once used the phrase “pregnancy hormones” but Emma uses it plenty.

“And that means _she_ was cold,” she whispers against his warm skin and can’t help thinking that their daughter would never be cold, if she was with Killian all the time.

“Oh, Emma. You know that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

He says okay and continues to rub her back with his stump and her belly with his hand until both girls calm down and only then he goes back to contradict her.

“Darling, it is biologically impossible for her to have been cold. It is also impossible because you’ll never let that happen.”

“But I did.”

“Swan—“

“Why am I still going to work?”

That shuts him up. They both know Killian suggested that she start her maternity leave a month ago. They both know the #1 reason he sold his cabin in Storybrooke in a hurry – even outranking his definite lack of desire to ever go back – was that she will be able to take as much time off work as she wants when the baby comes.

“Why am I out in freaking December?”

He frowns at that.

“Swan, I know you, you’ll go stir crazy, if you—“

“What does it matter? So I go a little crazy? This is already risky ‘cause I’m over 30—“

“The doctor said—“

“I’m keeping her! We are—“

“What are you on about? When was this even a question?”

There is a tinge of panic mixed in with his confusion now. Almost unnoticeable, unless you are Emma, unless being attuned to Killian’s emotions is one of your life goals.

“No, never, I— not like that, I just— Oh, God. Killian, I…”

She drops her forehead on his shoulder and breathes deeply, grateful that his arms are still around her, grateful that he hasn’t pulled back in his confusion.

“I was just…,” she sighs heavily and wraps her arms around his left bicep, rolling her head back and forth, trying to order her thoughts. “My mind’s been so… all day. And I guess I’ve been thinking how nothing good ever lasts for me and... I freaked out. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, love. I think I’m still ahead in the freak outs tally.”

She snorts and it’s choked and watery and she reaches up to wipe his shoulder.

“ _Also_ ,” she feels the rough pad of Killian’s finger under her chin, angling her head to the side and up until she meets his gaze. “I thought I classified as a good thing that’s currently lasting.”

He sounds almost shy about it and she will laugh, if she wasn’t worried that laughing might lead to crying. So she sighs instead and smiles in a way that she thinks most people will probably define as smitten.

“Yeah, we’re just hoping you’re not the exception that proves the rule or something.”

“Emma—”

“I know, I know,” she straightens a little and Killian smooths out her hair and tucks it behind her ears.

“Everything is going to be alright. We’re going to keep you both warm and happy over the winter and in a couple of months you’ll have another exception to your frankly outrageous rule.”

Her hands settle on his cheeks, the stubble prickling her pink and oversensitive fingers and she drops her forehead to his and smiles.

“I’ll call my boss tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to rush—”

“No, really, I’m not… even if I had actual work to do, there’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate. All I can think about is if we need more baby bottles.”

“We have four packs of different baby bottles.”

“I know, I’m surprised I didn’t buy another one today.”

“You didn’t?”

She pinches his left ear.

“No. I bought a dress I might never fit into again.”

Killian’s eyes darken a little and he leans further into her, his hand sliding down her spine and boldly helping itself to some of her ass.

“Tell me more.”

“About the dress I won’t fit into?”

“It matters not, darling. If you don’t fit into it, you’ll just be naked that much sooner.”

Her burst of laughter is probably not the reaction he was going for but it seems to satisfy him nonetheless.

///

She finishes her tea and manages to talk Killian into dinner on the couch, using how warm and comfy she is as her unbeatable arguments. Now her feet are tucked under his thigh and she is appreciating the way he rubs her calves and only half paying attention to what Kevin McAlister is doing on her laptop.

“So, Christmas?”

Killian blinks at her and she pushes up the black frames that have almost slid off his nose.

“You want to do something different?”

“Well, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to break the wine and tragic backstories tradition.”

“Thank the gods, I was running out of ruined relationships to tell you about.”

“Ha ha.”

Actually Emma has always been quite proud of how non-Grinchy she and Killian are. Sure, they’re not overly zealous about it and haven’t really bothered with a tree or many decorations the last couple of years but for the most part they seem to have avoided letting their aloneness and their loneliness spoil the family holiday for them completely.

“I actually had an idea of sorts,” Killian lets go of her leg and tugs on his beard.

It’s getting long again. She kinda likes it – all the black and white and ginger mesh together beautifully.

Emma bends her knees further and shuffles closer, propping her elbows on her knees and her chin on her palms. She looks up at her boyfriend and blinks expectantly. He huffs in undisguised amusement and cards his fingers through her hair.

“I was thinking that we’re rather lowkey about the whole holiday.”

“We specifically put on _Home Alone_ for the second night in a row and last week you tried to make me a peppermint hot chocolate.”

“I _did_ make you a peppermint hot chocolate, the fact that you dubbed it “totally gross” is another matter altogether.”

“Totally the same matter,” she fires back even as she leans her head to the side so his hand can slip lower and massage her neck. “I eat like a billion times better thanks to you but your taste in hot drinks is shit, my love.”

“That is not at all what you said the first time I made you a proper Irish coffee.”

Killian might not whine but Emma most certainly does. It’s plaintive and just a little angry.

“Why would you say that right now? Coffee and alcohol are two of the things I miss the most.”

He leans over and replaces his fingers with his lips, leaving a damp trail along the curve of her neck.

“My apologies, Swan, but there are other Irish things you can have any time you wish.”

She hums in faux contemplation.

Emma would be a shameless liar if she said she didn’t freak out a bit around the fifth month of her pregnancy when she realized exactly how limited their sex life was about to get and exactly how unsexy some parts of her were already getting. If Killian’s indignation and reassurances took her 70-75% of the way to being secure in her sex appeal again, his sex drive (and her own for that matter) over the last couple of months have definitely boosted her up to around 90%.

So she untucks her feet (still in their Christmas-y socks – what is he even on about – they have holiday spirit to spare) from under Killian and carefully swings one leg over him, adjusting herself so she doesn’t completely crush him but she can press her full breasts (that side effect she isn’t complaining about) against his chest.

“Tell me the thing first and then I’ll take a closer look at those things.”

“So demanding.”

“Killian.”

“Alright, alright. Hmm, just the short version or…”

His fingers come up to play with the zipper of her hoodie and she can feel his left forearm tapping a nervous rhythm against his own thigh so she reaches out and grabs both, bring their hands between them. Killian tugs her knuckles to his lips and she mirrors the action with his left arm. His breath hitches a little. Emma has his stump all mapped out and she can navigate with almost perfect accuracy the parts that have no feeling in them and the little spots that are almost hypersensitive.

“Long version. You know I always want the long version.”

He snaps his slackened jaw shut and his eyebrow shoots up and yeah, alright, she walked right into that one.

The thing is, she is still caught by surprise sometimes. Turns out Killian Jones likes few things better than a good innuendo. Emma thinks it started only after they moved out of Storybrooke though she can’t remember the precise moment. What she does remember is sliding to the floor from too much laughter, Killian leaning on the kitchen counter and looking down at her with sparkling eyes and her asking where on earth he came up with that stuff. She remembers the way the skin under his scruff reddened slightly, the way he cleared his throat and focused on his drumming fingers – caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement – as he joked that it’s an old skill she has made him rediscover. She remembers that last part – coupled with his looking at her from under his lashes and biting his lip – working for him better than most of the ridiculous innuendoes.

By now she is perfectly capable of recognizing the signs – the way his brows twitch, the mischievous little sparkle brightening his blue eyes, the way his tongue pokes out and swipes over his chapped lips. Basically the way he looks right about now.

“Focus, my love,” she chastises. “Storytime first, playtime after.”

“How do you know there’s a story to it?”

“You’re nervous about it.”

He huffs and the eyebrows settle, his eyes flickering all over the room for a moment.

“It’s not… it’s not nervous per se.”

She lifts a skeptical eyebrow.

“I just want you to tell me honestly, if it sounds silly. I don’t want you to automatically agree because there is a sentimental aspect to it.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Killian?”

“Mm?”

“Remember the first snow last year?”

“Errr… I suppose?”

“Remember telling me about how you and Liam used to bury each other under the snow – the way normal people bury each other under sand on the beach – to see which one of you will last longer?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Do you?”

“Yes, Swan, I remember. You made that same “normal people” point back then.”

“And did I agree to do that with you?”

“You most certainly did not.”

“Proceed.”

He gives her a look and she just grins smugly, fully aware that he is more than satisfied with the point she has made, even if he is all huffy about the way she made it.

“Alright. Well… I’m a little fuzzy on the details. It might have been Liam she did it with and I just helped. Or it might have even been both of us. But… I’m pretty confident it was me and my mum. I think we only did it for a couple of years before she took ill and all.”

She squeezes his hand and nods. It seems they simply can’t do Christmas time without some backstorytelling. Wine or no wine.

“The house wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination but there were still plenty of brilliant hiding places. And I remember searching for hours sometimes. I think she gave me hints sometimes. Like a game of hot and cold?”

“What were you looking for?”

“Christmas gifts.”

“Oh.”

“Aye. I… I think she hid a bunch of them – little things really, just… a lolly, a pair of socks – things like that. Yes, it might’ve been both Liam and I looking… There was always something hidden around the house, every day of the week leading up to Christmas. Or maybe just for a few days— I don’t—“

He shakes his head and frowns at his inability to recall the obviously happy memory completely. Emma feels her heart clench a little – she knows the feeling. Some of her happy memories are nothing more than vague feelings of warmth, yet she can still recite word for word the cruel words thrown at her 7-year-old self. It’s not fair.

“No matter, it’s just that… I was putting a book away the other day and I thought “this would make a good hiding place for a present”. Yet it was obviously too small to hide Christmas gifts. And then I remembered that game. The search, the excitement.”

“It sounds like a super sweet thing to do.”

“Aye. And I was thinking we could do it for…” his hand lets go of hers to settle over her belly.

Emma looks down and then her eyes shoot back up. Her eagerness must be plain to see because Killian grins happily back at her.

“Yeah?”

“Yes! Totally! We can start with really easy places when she is little and then make it harder and harder until she is too old to bother with us.”

Killian laughs her favourite laugh – deep and joyful and absolutely unrestrained.

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“It’s brilliant.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so, love. Because I was also thinking we could test it out on you.”

“On me?”

Killian nods simply.

“There are only about five days till Christmas but if you’re amenable, I might be prepared with your first couple of gifts.”

“Really?”

“Mm, I thought what’s the harm – if you didn’t want to play, I’ll just give them to you on Christmas. And they’re nothing special, just—”

“But I’m not prepared.”

“Prepared?”

“With tiny presents for you.”

Killian laughs again and smiles at her.

“Darling, I’m a bit too old to play hot and cold. Or to receive multiple gifts on Christmas.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.”

“Swear jar.”

“Ugh, whatever. She can’t even hear me yet.”

“Oh but she can hear when I tell her bedtime stories?”

“Yeah ‘cause your voice is deeper and it’s… like… different wavelengths.”

Killian lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and just nods in the general direction of their brand new swear jar.

“Fine. Whatever. But if I’m scavengerhunting for gifts then so are you and that’s that.”

“And if we pick the same places? We only have so many rooms.”

“So we just laugh at how cute we are and pick different places.”

Killian sighs in a way that always signals that he knows he has lost the argument but is not ready to admit it just yet.

“You’ll have to worry about finding me things and—“

“No, I won’t, I love buying you presents.”

Another sigh.

“Swan.”

“What?”

“I wanted to do this for you.”

“Yeah, I can see that, my love. And it’s so stinking cute I’m pretty sure I haven’t processed it yet.”

He chuckles and slides his hand down to her lower back, pressing gently to bring her closer for a kiss. She keeps just out of reach.

“I just feel like it’s gonna be even more fun, if we both get to play the kid.”

“Alright then. But I warn you I have already found a couple of marvelous hiding places. If you turn this into some sort of competition, all you’re going to do is embarrass yourself.”

She gasps in indignation and pulls away to glare into his laughing eyes.

“Oh, yeah? See if the first thing I hide aren’t your glasses. Then we’ll see who’ll be embarrassed, old man.”

“Experienced, Swan. Us old people prefer the term “experienced”.”

“Do you now? And do you have anything to back up that “term” with?” she punctuates her questions with the slow grind of her hips against his and smirks triumphantly at Killian’s gulp.

“Indeed.”

His grip on her tightens, wrapping her legs more securely around his waist and he whispers a raspy “hold on” in her ear before he stands up with a groan.

“Killian!”

Her hands clamp around him and her thighs squeeze him in a vice grip even though she knows he just needs to release them and she’ll safely reach the ground.

“Now. About those Irish delicacies we were discussing,” he huffs into her shoulder and turns in the direction of their bedroom.

“Put me down. You’ll fuck up your back again.”

“Swear jar.”

“Killiaaan.”

“Swan, you’re toying with my fragile male ego.”

“You don’t have a fragile male ego. You are 5.9 and have a fully grown beard and a very nice cock.”

His laughter shakes them both.

“No abs though. Also – swear jar.”

“Cock is not a swear word. Abs are overrated.”

Her arms tighten automatically around his neck as Killian starts slowly lowering her down onto their bed.

“So says you.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls him to stand between her thighs, her hands eagerly slipping under the hem of his t-shirt.

“And here I thought you cared about what I say.”

Killian tosses his glasses on his nightstand and drops to his knees so she can easily tug his t-shirt over his head.

“Always,” he murmurs in the space between her breasts. “Especially when you tell me how you want to have me?”

“Mmm, such a good question. Is it a multiple choice? ‘Cause I happen to have multiple answers.”

///

“Warmer… warmer… and now we’re getting cold again.”

“Ugh, I’ve checked every corner of this room! Where the fuck did you hide— I swear to God, Killian, if you say the words “swear” and “jar”, I _will_ throw something at you.”

“You have to put a dollar in the glass container for expletives and obscenities.”

“Jesus, you’re infuriating.”

“Mildly annoying at worst.”

“No, you’re infuriating. Being a smartass only makes you more infuriating.”

“Ah, ah, you’re heating up again, Swan.”

“I’ll heat up your ass!”

“Is that a promise?”

“ _God_.”

///

“Emma, love…”

“Shut up.”

“I do not wish to judge but—“

“Seriously, shut up.”

“The bathroom cabinet? I must say, I’m insulted more than anything else.”

“It was behind my pads!”

“Alright?”

“It said it was the best place to hide something from your boyfriend!”

“What did?”

“The internet!”

“Love… did you… google hiding places?”

“Remember when I told you to shut up?”

“Bloody hell, you’re adorable.”

“Jones—“

“Oh, love, come here.”

“Go away.”

“I love you.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’ve never played hide and seek, ok? Or this… hot and cold thing.”

“Well, that’s why we’re playing now. So you can have some practice, or our little lass will run circles around you.”

“She will anyway.”

“Probably… Did you really google “where to hide things from my boyfriend”?”

“… maybe.”

“Bloody hell, that sounds wrong.”

“Yeah… I don’t think any of those articles and forum entries were made for the purpose of hiding presents from your significant other.”

“They also give rubbish advice.”

“I’ll have you know, the pads and tampons thing was everywhere.”

“Darling, I buy you those most of the time.”

“Yeah, but… yeah, ok. Shit advice. For shitty boyfriends… and shitty girlfriends when you think about it.”

“Just go with your gut from here on, yeah? I’m confident it will yield much better results. No need to cheat, Swan.”

“Ah! I did not _cheat_!”

“Of course not. I jest. This was most certainly not a very unsuccessful attempt at cheating. ”

“Shut up.”

///

Emma finishes her chapter and leafs through the pages of the next. 15. Then she drops the book on her lap and looks up into the amused eyes of her boyfriend.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing her ass. Now the corners of his mouth are twitching as well.

“You don’t have nothing face.”

“No? What kind of face do I have?”

“A very nice one.”

He huffs a little laugh but his ears immediately turn a shade pinker.

“Ah, excuse the inaccuracy. What kind of an expression do I have?”

She looks around. No one in the café is looking at them and Emma is not even sure why she feels self-conscious saying it but—

“The one you get when you think I’m doing something cute.”

Now Killian flushes with pleasure, the lines around his eyes crinkling along with his smile.

“You _are_ doing something cure. Endearing, if I may use a more appropriate term.”

“You may also tell me what it is.”

She lifts her knee a bit so the book doesn’t slide off her lap and reaches for her cocoa. Killian purses his lips and narrows his eyes, seemingly in deep thought. Emma rolls her eyes over the rim of her mug and gives him a look.

“Oh, come on.”

He sighs but smiles nonetheless and sets his newspaper on the table between them. It’s a nice table. It’s a nice place.

Emma’s life was not one of those lives. Nice cafés, quality hot cocoa, a man who finds her “endearing”. And now—

She wasn’t a “regular” before Storybrooke. That’s to say she never really cared to have her name and order memorized by a barista whose name she was also aware of. She didn’t visit the same burger joints all the time, she didn’t order from the same pizza places and she most certainly didn’t go to the same coffee shops and sit around, making herself at home.

Storybrooke of course didn’t give her much of a choice. You either ate at Granny’s or you cooked for yourself. But once they moved to Boston she naturally fell back on her nomadic ways.

Killian was a whole different story. If he’d ever been a regular at Granny’s, that was over and done with long before she arrived. So Emma really didn’t expect him to develop a partiality for some random diner or coffee shop when they moved.

Then again, The Caffeinated Bookworm is hardly any random café. It is, Emma has not too begrudgingly come to admit, one of the most charming places she has ever been in, made even more so by its multitude of bookshelves you can borrow from, its extremely friendly and enthusiastic owner named after the most bookish princess of them all and its small but extremely well-mastered collection of beverages.

Emma cringes at the thought of ever setting foot in a Starbucks or a Costa again. Though she definitely misses the muffins but Belle keeps saying she can’t bother with all the permits she’ll need.

It didn’t take nearly as much convincing to get Emma to come to The Bookworm again and again _and again_ as she thought it would. Mostly because it’s now Killian’s favourite place to spend a Saturday, if they are not at home, and maybe because she wanted to see this _Belle_ with all the good book recommendations and the fantastic coffee.

She loves Belle now, don’t get her wrong. She just—

“You do this thing.”

Emma blinks a couple of times and focuses on Killian who is looking at her with his head tilted to the side and oh – his eyes are really soft now.

“What thing?”

“I can always tell when you’ve finished your chapter because you always leaf through to see how long the next one is.”

He says it likes it’s this miraculous thing she does and not just a silly quirk.

“Well, I like to be prepared.”

Killian laughs and reaches across the table to take her hand, bringing it to his lips.

She will do the silliest things 24/7, if they make him smile like that.

“This is a public place, you know?”

They both look up to see Elsa standing beside their table, a perfectly formed eyebrow cocked up in barely suppressed amusement.

“Yes, and we are so indecent.”

Emma rolls her eyes as Killian hides his smile into another kiss to her knuckles before he gets up.

“The way you’re looking at each other is. Don’t think I don’t know how this happens.”

Elsa waves at her baby bump and Emma tries to laugh off her blush.

“I should hope so. Otherwise sex ed in Norway must be truly appalling,” she looks at Killian shrugging into his coat and gathering his phone and newspaper and frowns. “You’re not staying?”

“Ah, afraid not. There is a… project that needs some finishing touches. I thought I’ll make use of the time while Elsa keeps you company.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, knowing he is not working on any boats in the dead of winter, but decides to let it go. He gives her a grateful smile and a kiss that might go on a couple of seconds longer than Elsa will deem “decent”.

“I can’t believe you still buy an honest-to-god newspaper,” Elsa grins at Killian teasingly and kisses him on the cheek.

“They still sell them.”

Emma thinks forty years ago he might have stuck his tongue out at the other blonde but Killian just grins at Elsa’s eyeroll and winks at her before he leaves.

Elsa goes to get herself a cup of coffee and when she comes back Emma can see the suspicion in her eyes. To be fair, Emma’s grin is a bit evil.

“You know you’re one of my closest friends,” she starts. “But for future reference, you really shouldn’t kiss the man of a pregnant woman right in front of her.”

Elsa laughs one of her rare laugh – loud and unexpected, shaking her shoulders slightly, her braid reaching her seat as she tips her head back.

“Alright, tell me about that lab girl.”

Emma’s expression sours.

“Ugh, don’t get me started.”

“It was obviously what you were angling at, seeing as I’m pretty sure you’re not jealous of your very devoted husband and your very asexual best friend.”

“Not my husband yet.”

It’s been more than a month since they talked about it and she still has two wedding rings stashed in her jewelry box but no ring on her finger.

Not that a month is a lot. Or that she needs a ring. She doesn’t. She doesn’t need anything but to be 100% that Killian wants it as much as she does, that it’s one of those things that she can give him – that they can give each other.

Elsa just hums and takes a sip of her drink, her back perfectly straight again and her elegant, pale fingers wrapped securely around the little cup. She is waiting. Emma sighs.

Emma’s life was not one of those lives either. Best friends she could talk to about boys. Boys she’d want to talk about. And now it is.

“So we were getting my regular blood tests done, right? And Killian’s there, of course. And there’s this lab assistant or whatever, I don’t know, she wasn’t even the one taking my blood so I have no idea _why_ she was hovering around. I mean – I do. She kept going on about how wonderful he is, how nice it is when the father is so involved, how few men are, blah, blah.”

Elsa’s light cough might have been a laugh. Emma just glares.

“I know, ok? I just… ugh, she was so… ugh.”

“What did Killian say?”

Emma rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair.

“He didn’t see it until I said something. Then he found it hilarious, said she could be his daughter.”

Elsa lifts an eyebrow.

“Look, you do not flirt with a pregnant woman’s man. Do you know what is going on inside our heads? And inside like… everything?”

“Yeah, Anna was the same.”

“Your sister?”

“The one and only. She got pregnant just a few months after they got married. Kristoff was working on this reindeer farm back then. She went absolutely mental over how much time he was spending with the owner.”

“Well, can you blame her? Work environments can be very—“

“Emma, she was a lovely woman in her late 50’s with a husband and three children.”

“Oh. Well…”

Elsa laughs her delicate, barely audible laugh this time but her eyes are warm and sparkling.

“It’s just… the two of you have two of the most honest and faithful men I’ve ever met and—“

“I know, I know,” Emma waves her hands around before she drops them on her belly, laughing a little as well. “It’s… It’s not a real thing we’re really worried about just…”

“Flirty nurses are a bit much.”

“Way too much… She definitely wasn’t a proper nurse.”

///

“Names.”

“Hmmm?”

“Names, my love. How have we still not talked about names?”

“Because we’ve been too preoccupied with making sure everything was alright with the babe and procuring any amenity she could possibly need?”

“Mm, when you put it like that… it doesn’t make us the horrible parents I was afraid we might already be.”

“Never. It is simply impossible that you will be anything but wonderful. So much so that you will hardly allow any of my shortcomings to turn truly horrible.”

“I’m not even going to argue with this. I’ll just wait and let her come out and be all smug when you’re amazing at everything.”

“Let me get this straight – _you_ will be smug over _me_ being amazing at everything.”

“Of course. I totally get to be smug about picking you to procreate with.”

Killian chokes.

She giggles, kisses the space behind his ear and moves back to her chopping board.

“I love you.”

“ _Emma._ ”

“What?”

“Stop. I cannot bare for my love for you to grow anymore because you use the word “procreate” in casual conversation.”

“It’s a word. Also, this is not just any conversation, we were discussing baby names.”

“I don’t think we ever got that far.”

“And we should. Names, Killian. Girl names.”

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“Procreating with you? Repeatedly.”

“Swan.”

He sounds like she’s physically torturing him. It might have something to do with the fact that his only available hand is currently engaged in stirring some sauce that apparently needs to be stirred constantly. If the way his jaw is ticking is any indication, he wants it to be engaged in other ways. She laughs and goes back to chopping walnuts into really tiny walnuts.

It’s her assigned task. She doesn’t know why. Killian is not very good at explaining recipes.

“Sorry, sorry. Baby names? Not seriously. I mean… yeah, okay, I… I had some moments with Neal. Not when I thought I might be— Before that. Before it all went to shit.”

God, Neal was an asshole. She can’t believe she considered having babies with him. It’s probably not fair comparing— No, you know what, screw that, it’s totally fair. Neal was nearing 30 when they met.

Man, someone would think she has a thing for older men which she honestly wouldn’t mind, she doesn’t see anything wrong with it when _both_ parties are adults. Except she doesn’t like how it seems to cheapen what she has with Killian. She didn’t like Neal for his presumed maturity or experience. She loved him with her own inexperience and innocence and insecurity. Mostly she loved him with her need to be loved.

And she would be lying, if she said she doesn’t like Killian’s moments of staggering sensibility and measured maturity, his old-fashioned manners and considerable experience. But that’s like, just somewhere down the very long list. She loves Killian with everything she is, with her certainty and her confidence and even her crankiness. Mostly she loves him with her need to love and her faith in being loved.

“Emma?”

Killian is in front of her, his hand cupping her face. His thumb runs slowly across the rounded edge of her jaw. His fingers are rough but his touches are always so soft.

“Everything alright, darling?”

“What happened to your needy sauce?”

Even his chuckle is soft.

“It will survive. My attentions are yours and yours alone until a certain little lass comes around.”

“Hmm.”

“Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. Just thinking how much my taste in men has improved.”

“I selfishly hope it will not continue to improve.”

“Nope. I have officially peaked.”

He hums, kisses her cheek and takes a few steps back to check on his demanding sauce.

“Good. So would it be rather strange, if you told me the baby names you considered back then?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so? I didn’t like, actually consider them for a baby I actually wanted to have. It just… made me think about it for the first time. But if you mind—“

“I don’t mind. What did you like?”

“I liked Angela for a girl. Or Alexandra. I dunno what’s with the A’s.”

She chuckles and it sounds nervous even to her own ears.

“I like Alexandra,” he says lightly, softly. “I like that you can shorten it to Alex.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No?”

“No. I mean… I still like the names but… there’s nothing special about them. They’re just names I like the sound of.”

Killian hums in understanding. As if her ramblings make perfect sense. She supposes they do to him at this point, he is very good at listening to her ramble and has been doing so for over two years now.

He is also really good at letting her get to her point or letting her talk herself to whatever decision she needs to make. She has developed the questionable habit of calling him, saying what she needs to figure out and then just talking until she has come to a conclusion or a decision, Killian mostly just humming and guiding her along with the right questions. Maybe she feels like she can figure anything out when he is there to watch her do it. That makes it sound less silly.

“So would you like to look up names with certain meanings?”

“Maybe. Although I don’t really feel like naming our daughter Lucasta.”

“Are we big enough fans of Lovelace for that?”

He says it so seriously, brows furrowing in contemplation. She can’t help but laugh. She swears she has laughed more since she met Killian Jones than in all the years that came before. It makes perfect sense to her.

“I don’t know, my love, you’re the resident bookworm. But I don’t really like Lucasta. I just looked up names meaning “light”.”

“Light. That’s quite lovely, Swan.”

She shrugs as she feels her cheeks heat up a little. She just googled it, it’s not like she knows stuff like that. Killian probably knows stuff like that but—

“But I thought maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Well, this is really all up to you, since I can’t be of any help whatsoever in that department—“

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, I really can’t, I’m not being modest or some bullshit like that.”

Killian has finally taken his damn sauce off the stove. He comes up behind her and his teeth sink lightly into her shoulder, so tender she almost doesn’t realize the bite is meant to be an admonishment.

“What happened to that swear jar?”

“I said “bloody” should count as a swear.”

“Ah, right.”

She tilts her head back and sticks her tongue out at him.

“Are you offering that to me, love?”

She sticks it out further and keeps it that way until he leans in and draws it into his own mouth. She licks lightly at the roof of his mouth, tickling him on purpose until he bites at her lip. She still doesn’t feel admonished though her neck is staring to ache a bit.

Killian pulls back first, leaving a series of kisses on her forehead – so innocent she would laugh, if she wasn’t worried that will make him stop.

“So what is this thing only I can do?”

“Oh.”

She draws her own lip under her teeth even as his mouth continues to press lightly now to the top of her head.

It’s— She didn’t realize how much she wanted it until it’s time to ask him. Shit, she really hopes he says yes. And she really hopes she can temper down her disappointment, if he says no.

“Do you have any… family names you might like us to use?”

Killian stops kissing her. That’s never a good thing in Emma’s books no matter the situation. He pulls back and turns her around carefully so he can see her face fully and she can see the perplexed way he is blinking at her. He might be floored, he might be upset. She really hopes for the former.

Her hand slides up his neck, her pointer finger fitting perfectly behind his right ear and stroking the lobe gently.

“Like… a grandmother… or your mom’s maybe?”

“You—“ Killian clears his throat, it sounds very businesslike to her but then his voice comes out a little breathless the way she has only heard it a few times. “You want to name her after my mother?”

“Only if you do.”

“Have I ever told you her name?”

Emma shakes her head. He has told her a lot of stories about Liam but very few with his mother or father present. Their little Christmas game is one of the few. She supposes those are a bit more painful. She doesn’t think he has ever mentioned their names.

Part of her wonders if he doesn’t want to tell her too many family stories that she can’t meet with any of her own. She should tell him she wants to hear more.

“Umm,” his tongue flits restlessly over his lips, a sure sign that he is a little nervous and she settles her other hand over his heart. “My grandmother’s name – my mother’s mother was Catriona. I think my father’s was Nora but I never met her and I can only remember him mentioning her a handful of times.”

She nods encouragingly and tries not to look too eager.

“My… my mother’s name was Alice.”

_Alice._

He swallows and looks at her from under his lashes.

“Do you like it?”

His voice is so soft – a little uncertain, more than a little hopeful.

God, Emma wishes she could say that she wouldn’t have saddled her kid with some difficult, old-fashioned name but she is looking into the blue, blue eyes of the love of her life and she is just damn grateful her daughter lucked out with such a beautiful name.

“I love it.”

If she comes off a bit breathless and emotional – well, this is a pretty damn big moment. They just picked their kid’s name. She hopes.

“Truly?”

She really hopes the way Killian’s eyes are shining is a good sign. She nods.

“Can we? Please?”

“Bloody hell.”

His lips crash onto hers almost violently, almost like he couldn’t quite wait to determine the strength with which to drop his mouth on hers. She doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind one bit. His beard really needs trimming though.

“Of course. Emma— Gods, of course, I— You truly wish to?”

“I may or may not be incapable of imagining giving her another name now.”

Killian groans in what is definitely approval and delight and a whole lot of other emotions. And then he kisses her again.

///

“Swan.”

She beams at him, her hands clasped behind her back and an unapologetically self-satisfied smile on her lips.

“This is not a little present, love.”

“Actually it’s pretty tiny. It fits in your palm.”

“You know it is not the size that matters.”

“Huh. I never thought you would need to use that phrase.”

“Swan.”

He doesn’t give so she sighs and sways closer, her eyes earnest and bright.

“You eye it every time we go to The Bookworm.”

“I eye yachts at the marina as well.”

“Yeah, well, those weren’t going to fit in my shoe box. I had to compromise.”

Honestly, if she could, she would’ve gotten him every yacht in the damn marina. If she could, she would get Killian Jones every single thing he could ever wish for. Unfortunately, she has to be content with what’s within her power to give him.

Killian sighs and gently sets the small book on the table before his hand and stump settle on her hips.

“Thank you,” he leans down, his nose brushing hers sweetly, reverently, before his lips press against hers – the skin of them rough and warm.

“Is it my turn?”

If her eyes shine with excitement and slight impatience now – sue her. No one has done anything like this for her.

She used to date a guy. A few years after Neal. She was wary at first, the way she was with every guy after Neal. But he kept calling her and he kept buying her flowers and then he started buying her lingerie and then jewelry.

Emma likes to think she is not a material person. There have been times in her life when she went hungry, there have been times when all she had were the clothes on her back. Emma is the kind of girl you can impress with a single flower and a cup of coffee, some seashells and a pair of gloves. But maybe that was exactly why the expensive presents seemed all the more fairytale-like, why they seemed to imply such strong feelings. If people who got you pizza and tickets to your favourite movie, cared for you, what could a man who bought you dozens of roses and gold bracelets feel?

Apparently, anxiety that you would find out he was married. Or maybe guilt over two-timing you and his wife. She didn’t stay long enough to find out.

Emma never cared for lavish gifts. And after that she became downright suspicious of them.

She was most certainly not suspicious of the gorgeous pair of earrings Killian got her for her last birthday and yet. She likes this better. All the small presents that he found for her that make so much sense – from the exclusive hot chocolate flavours and orange and cinnamon candle to the duckling socks and the Princess Bride bookmark – all the thought that obviously went not only into the presents but into their hiding places as well, seeing as she has yet to find one in under 19 minutes and 30 seconds.

“Aye, your turn.”

Killian takes a deep breath and she smiles at him in amusement. He is acting as if _he_ is about to be scouring their apartment for half an hour. That’s her average time.

“Alright then.”

She looks around eagerly and heads for the small hallway.

“Warmer.”

Good. Three options then – bathroom, bedroom or their soon-not-to-be-spare bedroom. They’ve both used the bathroom already so she puts her hand on their bedroom door.

“Colder.”

Killian’s breath stirs the hair on the back of her neck and she feels the goosebumps erupt under her sweater.

Alice’s room it is then. She opens the door and feels Killian right behind her.

“Warmer,” they say in unison.

“Confident are we?” he teases but his voice sounds the tiniest bit uncertain and Emma grins – she can already taste her victory.

Killian’s record for gift-finding is a whooping 6 minutes and 46 seconds. She is sure he has put on the timer and she can’t be more than a couple of minutes in. She looks around the room and heads for the large window. She learnt not to rule out any place after she found one of her presents literally hanging among the drapes in the living room.

Pulling the ephemeral white curtain however reveals no secrets and Emma rolls her eyes at herself. Of course he wouldn’t use the same trick twice. She looks around again. There is the changing table folded in the corner, the crib whose assembling alone would’ve bankrupted them if they’d stuck to the rules of the swear jar.

She is just about to check it from all sides when the mobile above it catches her eye. Or rather the way it is slightly leaning to one side. Emma circles the crib and grins. There, in one of the small boats, is an even smaller box.

She can’t hold in her little whoop of triumph as she reaches out and relieves the boat of its cargo.

“I hope you set the timer because this was definitely less—“

Emma turns around, holding the box proudly.

“Oh.”

He probably didn’t set the timer. What with the kneeling and everything.

“Emma Swan—“

Killian’s voice comes out very hoarse and as he clears his throat, she feels her fingers clutch the velvet box so hard that it dents a little under them.

“I-I know this is far from a grandiose proposal. And, believe me, I have debated every way, place and time that I could do this so it will be… so it might at least come close to what you deserve.”

She bites her lip and tells herself to be quiet. Knowing Killian, he has most certainly thought way too much about what he will say and the last thing she wants to do is cut him short.

“But… nothing about us has ever been grandiose except… except how we feel… how much we… bloody hell.”

He swallows again and Emma lifts her free hand and actually bites on the side of her thumb in an attempt to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. If Killian’s relieved little laugh is anything to go by, she is probably not doing very well. He smiles right back at her and this time his voice comes out stronger and clearer.

“Emma, my darling, my love, I never could have imagined you. Even in my wildest dreams and hopes, I never could’ve conjured up anyone as brilliant, as passionate and beautiful and kind. And I would’ve never dared to.”

No, Emma would’ve never dared to imagine that she can have someone like him either. Someone who will look at her like that. Someone she can keep _forever_. Hers was not one of those lives.

“Having you in my life at all, having your friendship… changed everything for me. It brought me back to… It quite literally gave me new life. But you and only you would dare to take it so far, to take us both so far, that we end up here.”

He looks pointedly around the room and she can’t help the laugh that comes out or how watery it sounds.

“You have filled my poor old heart with more happiness than I thought it could handle and it is nothing but yours. It will never wish to be anything but yours. And I’m hoping – I would be so bold as to say I believe – yours would be willing to be mine just as long.”

She feels herself nod and she sees Killian smile up at her, though he is a bit blurry.

“Right. Well then… Emma Swan, would you fulfill our hearts’ desires? Would you, once again, take me further than I have ever thought it possible to go? Would you marry me?”

There’s no amount of wishing or fantasizing or watching movies or other people’s happiness unfolding that can ever prepare you for the moment when your whole world is one person and the whole world is yours.

Maybe hers is one of those lives. It’s so much better than she could have ever imagined.

Emma bends her knees slowly, Killian meeting her half way to help her kneel down easily. The permanent crease between his brows deepens – simply from concentration as he helps her but her thumb reaches for it on instinct, smooths it out, preparing the ground. In the next moment her forehead meets his and she exhales – loud and long, something between a laugh and a sob.

There’s a “yes” somewhere in there as well. She repeats it about a dozen more times just to be sure.

She has no clue who initiates the unceasing rain of kisses but somehow she manages to pull away. She has good reason. She really wants that ring on her finger. So she opens the box and she takes it out and she places it in his palm.

Killian grins at her and his lips are more kiss-swollen than she has seen them in a while, they are too dry and chapped from the winter winds at the docks and there is a little blood in the corner where the skin of his upper lip has split open under the pressure of her kisses. She leans over to kiss it away as softly as she can. Like the weirdo she is all she can think about is how symbolic it feels somehow.

“God, I love you so much.”

His eyes sparkle and his grin grows and he captures her mouth again and again – uncaring toward the tender skin unlike her.

“And I you.”

He pulls back and nudges the hand pressed to his chest with his stump as his own hand brings the ring between them again.

“Shall we see if this fits?”

It needs a bit of a push and Killian seems to hesitate for a second.

“A bit tight.”

“No, it will be perfect once I’m back to regular size.”

He huffs a little but laughs along with her and with a bit of encouragement pushes the ring all the way onto her finger. She looks down at it and can’t help the little flutter of pride, of possessive preening. And then—

“I can’t believe you gave me shit for an old book when you got me a diamond ring!”

Killian’s eyes go wide for a second – probably just as stunned as she is that _that_ is what came into her mind right now – and then he bursts out laughing. He doesn’t stop until she cradles the back of his head and pulls his lips back to hers.

They stay there until their knees start to hurt. It’s only as Killian helps her up and she looks around that she becomes aware of the tear tracks on her face.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming at all.”

She can hear the awe in her own voice and Killian wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her in so he can kiss her forehead.

“It was alright, aye?”

She looks up at him in shock. There might be a bit of indignation there as well.

“Uh, no. No, it wasn’t “alright” – it was perfect.”

He grins proudly at her.

///

Emma doesn’t know if it’s the little kid inside her or if it’s the _kid inside her_ that wakes her up bright and early on Christmas day. She can feel the early morning light on the back of her eyelids. She can use some more sleep. Maybe.

She runs her hand over her face and feels the press of cool metal. Her lips pull up. Or maybe she could get up and make her fiancé breakfast. The combination of his schedule and her own reluctance to leave their warm bed earlier than absolutely necessary rarely allow her such an opportunity.

But then she turns her head to the right and sees that once again Killian has made it out of bed before her.

“Damn.”

She will probably have to settle for being the recipient of breakfast in bed. Again. Hers is not an easy life. Emma stretches and grabs her phone, scrolling for a few minutes before she realizes how quiet it is in the apartment. Curiosity manages to overpower her innocent laziness and she drags herself out of bed.

Killian is nowhere to be found though. Bathroom, kitchen and baby room are all empty and quiet.

“Huh.”

Emma feels her daughter moving inside her and places her hands on her stomach, smiling down at her.

“What do you say, baby girl? Shall we make breakfast for when daddy comes back?”

She connects her phone to the little Bluetooth speaker on their kitchen counter and puts on her favourite playlist as she goes about making Killian’s favourite breakfast.

///

“Swan?”

“In the kitchen, my love.”

“The one time you were supposed to oversleep.”

Emma hears him mutter more to himself than her and quirks an eyebrow.

“Could you perhaps go into the bedroom for a spell?”

“I will but I’ll have you know I made French toast and eggs just the way you like them and you are being difficult.”

“You are an angel and I should like nothing better than to enjoy your efforts. In exactly five minutes.”

Emma rolls her eyes and leaves the prettily arranged – if she does say so herself – plates on the counter and heads toward their bedroom.

“I’d appreciate it, if you come and get me when I’m no longer under bedroom arrest.”

“Your wit is one of the things I love most about you, Swan.”

She snorts and grumbles but she doesn’t even think about peaking over her shoulder. Killian isn’t one for over the top surprises and he has yet to pull one that she has not loved so Emma plops down on their bed with a little smile and a healthy dose of excitement fluttering inside.

Less than five minutes later there is a gentle knock on their door and she resists the urge to roll her eyes at it.

Killian pokes his head inside and beams happily at her.

“Good morning, my wife-to-be.”

She closes her eyes and leans her head back, humming in undisguised pleasure.

“Oh, I do like the sound of that.”

She gasps in surprise when she feels his lips on her throat.

“Sneaky,” she breathes out and feels his laugh against her skin.

“Just a spot of payback for all those times you’ve snuck up on me.”

“I haven’t been sneaking up on you nearly as much recently.”

“Well, you are a wee bit bigger now.”

Her eyes pop open. Her gasp is laughably dramatic, the slap to his shoulder is very much for real.

Killian grunts and chuckles, catching her hand so he can bring it to his lips.

“My apologies. Perhaps you will accept your Christmas gift as penance?”

“My Christmas gift?”

“Aye,” his eyes sparkle with excitement but all she can do is gape at him.

“What do you call this?”

She waves her hand in his face almost aggressively.

“I call it an engagement ring, Swan.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “And a pretty solid gift.”

Killian shakes his head resolutely.

“No, no, no. _That_ is a completely separate affair. I am rather offended you thought I was going to use our engagement to kill two occasions with one gift.”

“One? You’ve been buying me gifts all week.”

“So have you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Are you trying to say that you do not wish to see your gift?”

“No. I’m just saying… you’re showing me up.”

“Nonsense. You have given me the best present by accepting to wear this,” his thumb strokes slowly over the ring on her finger. “And you made French toast.”

She rolls her eyes and uses his shoulders to push herself up.

“Come on, smartass. I want my present.”

“There’s my girl.”

///

Emma is kneeling on her daughter’s bedroom floor for the second time in the last 12 hours. Her palms run over the smooth wood – rich and dark with a gorgeous red tint to it. Maybe it’s cherry. It swoops beautifully, the chair legs turning into arm rests or maybe the other way around – it all flows so smoothly. Forming the shapes of two swans – supporting, guarding the soft seat between them.

“Oh my god.”

She rocks it gently with her hand, not daring to sit down just yet.

That corner has stood empty the whole time they were arranging the room. Right beside the window. They always knew they wanted a rocking chair there, they just could not seem to find _the one_. And now it was here.

“Where on earth did you find it?”

She hears Killian move behind her. He kneels and spreads his legs, caging her between them. His arms come around her and his chin settles on her shoulder.

“I didn’t it.”

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

“I didn’t _find_ it, Swan.”

His hand runs over the dip of her waist the way hers runs over the chair’s leg.

“Did you… _make_ this?”

She twists around, her nose bumping his cheek. She feels the moisture and she’s not sure if it’s the emotions choking her or simply how wide her eyes are right now. His own blue eyes are warm in the morning light and his smile is both shy and a little sleepy and full of delight.

“I was given advice and directions from someone far more experienced. Did you know August’s father is a carpenter? Marco?”

“You talked to August?!”

He chuckles and looks down.

“Come now, love, I’m a grown man. I can be civil.”

“Sounds like you were more than civil.”

“Not to alarm you but I believe I got along with the old man better than with his son.”

She laughs lightly and shakes her head. When she looks up he is staring at her with a hint of trepidation.

“There are some imperfections, you’ll see. Marco was rather kind, said they give it character but—“

“Killian, it’s… God, I sound like a broken record but it _is_ perfect. I can’t believe you made me a rocking chair.”

“Now, Swan, let’s not be greedy. I made _us_ a rocking chair.”

She shakes her head again and turns further in his loose embrace.

“Thank you.”

She kisses him – quick and sweet and so happy. She never knew she could be this happy.

“Shall we test it out then?”

Killian gets up and gives her a hand then he turns and drops into the chair, letting it rock him for a moment until the motion slows down. Then he gives her hand a tug and pulls her into his lap, her legs thrown over one swan armrest and the rocking motion starts anew.

“Hmm, it’s like we’re at sea.”

“Do you think she likes it?” he asks softly, his hand settling over her baby bump.

“Mhm. We’ll make a sailor out of her.”

“I have just the boat in mind.”

She snuggles further into the softness and warmth of him.

“My French toast is getting cold, Swan.”

“Just a minute.”

He hums in slight protest but his arms only tighten around her.

///

The morning slips into an unseasonably sunny day and after bundling up (or rather bundling each other up – Killian insisting she wear gloves and Emma wrapping him up in the scarf and hat she gave him their first Christmas together) they venture outside despite the chill in the air.

Emma has never been afraid of awkward silences. Aging out of the system comes with a whole lot of waiting around in hallways and offices, in bare bedrooms that she was moving into or moving out of, on lumpy sofas or in the back of cars. New families meant awkward silences, new schools meant small talk that inevitably lapsed into awkward silences, social workers meant questions that made you long for awkward silences and new group homes meant a very specific kind of silence – the silence that underlines too much noise that you are not a part of.

By the time she was “out in the world”, she was used to awkward silences and she preferred them to intrusive questions or insincere niceties.

But the concept of comfortable silences was more or less completely foreign to Emma before she met Killian Jones. To her people fell into 3 categories – ones that wanted to talk about themselves, ones that wanted to make her talk so then they could talk about themselves and ones that were silent and she did not see the point of hanging around to be silent with.

Killian doesn’t like talking about himself too much. Yet, he wants her to know him and she wants to know him and Emma can always tell when he just naturally starts telling her something personal without even realizing it and when he is consciously making an effort to let her in. She likes to think that it’s been more of the former recently. He doesn’t try to make her talk either, but when she starts, he doesn’t wait for his turn in the conversation – he sits and listens.

But it’s the silences that get to Emma the most sometimes. Because when Killian doesn’t seem to have anything in particular to say to her, he is perfectly content to just walk beside her or read his book with her half on top of him and just… _be._ And Emma is perfectly content as well – with him, together, silent or not, whenever, wherever.

It took her awhile to realize this is what people mean by comfortable silences, that this is what it feels like to want to be with someone even when you’re not really doing or saying anything. When you are just holding hands and wandering down the street, looking at closed shops and people carrying presents under their arms and others walking their dogs and yet others – good god _why_ – jogging on Christmas day, walking to the same slow rhythm and swinging your hands between you just because and looking at each other from time to time and letting your breaths mingle and that’s that.

And it’s lovely. They’ve been walking in perfect silence for over half an hour and it’s just… lovely.

And then he is licking his lips.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing you do with your tongue.”

His eyebrow reaches the edge of his beanie and his grin is overly smug.

“That’s not what you usually say.”

She doesn’t even spare the second to roll her eyes.

“I’m serious. It’s freezing, you shouldn’t lick your lips. That’s why they get chapped and split.”

Killian takes more than a second to roll his eyes at her.

“Are you saying you don’t like kissing me anymore, Swan?”

“I’m saying the exact opposite,” Killian huffs a little but when she wraps her hands around his arm, he pulls her a little closer. “I’m saying I want to kiss you all the time and I’d like to not cause you pain when I do.”

“Never,” he turns around and kisses her cheek to prove his point.

She kisses his split lip to prove hers. It hasn’t had the chance to heal, they’ve probably had too many occasions that required a whole lot of kissing. Like him winning all the “best Christmas present” awards, which—

“Let’s head home. You still have to open your present.”

///

“You are not excited to open your present.”

He shakes his head and she can see the amused little smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m excited about all Christmas traditions with you, darling. I simply have more self-control than a young lad and it’s time for lunch.”

“Yup, I’ll definitely get to be the fun parent.”

She thinks it is quite possible she fell irrevocably in love with Killian Jones when she first heard him laugh. But she is absolutely positive she has been falling further every time since.

“I have no problem with that, Swan. But you should really start your grilled cheese now, if you want it to be ready when the soup is.”

She mock salutes him and goes to take the cheese and butter out of the fridge. So they cook and eat and wash and dry the dishes and, deciding to play hard to get with Killian Jones for the first time in her life, Emma starts taking out cookies for desert afterwards.

The cookies, much to Killian’s chagrin, are so hard they can only be eaten with milk. This is fine by Emma. She arranges the slightly burnt and very misshapen stars and swans and Christmas trees on a plate and waits for the milk to warm up, all the while feeling her fiancé’s eyes on her.

If he is on to her game, he is not yet willing to say anything.

But when she hands him a mug and settles comfortably on the couch with her own drink and cookies and her computer in her lap, Killian finally seems to run out of that I’m-not-a-child-on-Christmas patience.

“Swan?” his chin fits perfectly between her shoulder and her neck, watching her browse the Spotify Christmas playlists.

Her only response is a deliberately distracted little hum. She can’t see if he rolls his eyes at her but she feels his nose skip over her bare skin before his lips press lightly.

“Can I have my present now?”

“Oh? Don’t you want to wait until New Year’s?”

He sighs and lays his head fully on her shoulder, his soft hair tickling her chin and her neck. She almost feels bad. She supposes that Killian’s exasperating patience and unconcern with his own presents has less to do with his age and more to do with him still being very out of practice with receiving any. Not that she has that much experience either. Which definitely shows in her mediocre presents. Dammit. She really shouldn’t have built this up.

She turns her head and buries her nose in his greying hair, inhaling the scent of his peppermint shampoo and sighing deeply. Killian doesn’t care how good or bad she is at buying and hiding presents. She repeats that to herself a couple of times before she gets up.

When she comes back, Killian has taken over two and a half of the three cushions and has a cookie stuffed in his mouth as he scrolls through her playlists, and Emma feels the tension between her shoulder blades release a bit. The way his eyes widen when he sees the rather large box in her hands helps as well. Or not.

“Ok, don’t get excited,” she warns way more sternly than she intended before she lowers herself onto the floor.

Killian follows suit so that the box rests between them and he is definitely curious at least. Nervous insects taking up residence with their baby aside, she doesn’t mind the way his eyes sparkle at her.

“So you know how men get their girlfriend lingerie and pretend it’s not a present for themselves?”

“I cannot deny that part of me would be flattered, if you got me a box full of lingerie but—“

“That’s not—“ she rolls her eyes and tries to give him a look but she still has to let him open this so it’s probably more nervous than reprimanding. “I mean that it’s kinda a present for me. I mean, it’s for both of us but I—“

“Emma.”

He grabs the hand that she is waving around way too much and smiles at her and—

She reaches over and runs her thumb over his bottom lip.

“Open it.”

Killian’s eyebrows furrow in confusion but he dutifully opens his mouth and her laughter is so loud compared to the soft Christmas song coming from the speakers.

“The box, Killian.”

It might be the quickest she has ever seen him blush. He ducks his head and lifts the simple lid to reveal all the other boxes inside.

“Ok, so this,” she reaches for the smallest one and shakes out the lip balm. “Is for your lips. It has no colour but it’s pomegranate flavor so you’ll like it.”

She doesn’t really look up to see his reaction, just powers on and grabs the next box.

“Since we definitely don’t have space for a dishwasher in that kitchen, hand cream it is. Mine is rosewater and yours is cucumber but we can totally exchange if you want. OK, on to the serious stuff.”

She keeps shoving boxes in his hand and sharing the information she spent more than a week accumulation. Unisex body lotions, a series of bath products that are supposed to help with loose skin – post her pregnancy, and sore muscles – post Killian’s every work day, an oil that is good for both old and new burns – and Killian keeps acquiring those in the kitchen, sunscreen with the highest factor and special protection against salt water, capsaicin cream and gel meant to help alleviate phantom pains, creams and lotions for her stretch marks, and a series of other ointments recommended for deep scars or muscle strains.

She is about to move on to the rolls and massagers when she looks up. Killian’s jaw seems a bit more slack than usual.

“Too much? Too girly?”

He doesn’t laugh, he shakes his head and pulls her into a kiss. She shoves the boxes to the side so she can move closer.

“Not at all. I hope that strawberry and vanilla one is for me,” he says against her lips and she laughs and nods.

“Whatever you want, my love.”

Before Killian, there were only a handful of times when Emma entertained the idea of a serious relationship with an actual living and breathing human, but there were plenty – especially when she found herself in a particularly dreary apartment or her neighbours were a particularly cute couple – when she hypothetically wondered what being in a comminuted, full-time relationship will be like. To be quite honest, her mind also strayed that way when she got particularly lazy in the winter and stopped shaving for a month or two or when she woke up in the middle of the night with a little bloodstain on her bedsheets.

Overall, she gave a thought or two to how exhausting being in a full-time relationship might be – having to always be in a state in which you wouldn’t mind your significant other seeing you in, having to reign in your less than charming or downright disgusting habits.

And she honestly has no clue if people keep worrying about all that once they _are_ in a relationship but frankly, now – there is no state in which she would mind Killian seeing her. No, when she thought “Shit. Pregnancy stretch marks.” her following thought was “Oh, I’ll get Killian to give me massages.”

And Killian – Killian was all about lights off, clothes on, “no, it’s fine”, “let me spend an hour between your legs but oh, no, you don’t have to” at first.

Now – she has to remind him of the benefits of sleep pants every other month and when he pulls a muscle at the docks, he doesn’t wait for her to offer him a massage so much as he butts his head into her arm or thigh like an over-eager puppy until she gives him her full attention. And she is far from displeased when—

“I do have a question though,” Killian picks up a bottle of body milk with aloe. “How is this at all similar to purchasing lingerie?”

She grins and turns her head to nibble lightly on his ear.

“Well… I don’t mean to underestimate you but these things are much easier to use with two hands.”

“Indeed.”

“So you might require assistance.”

“Emma, love… did you get me an outrageous amount of skin care products just so… you can regularly get your hands on me.”

He looks both shocked and so absolutely delighted by the prospect that Emma can literally feel her whole body sputtering in confusion, unsure whether she should blush or laugh or scoff or—

She buries her head in his chest and pulls the ends of his cardigan closer to hide herself. Killian folds her further into his arms and whispers silly things like how much he loves her.

She pulls back eventually, smoothing her hair away from her face and trying for a serious tone.

“Let’s get one thing straight though – I fully expect you to reciprocate.”

“Swan, have I ever been opposed to—“

“No, but this is not gonna be like… fun times. There will be like two months of no fun times. And you gotta help me do post-pregnancy damage control. While we take care of a baby.”

Killian smiles at her – lovingly and way too serenely in her opinion.

“I’ve… God, this is so stupid and vain and just— I’ve just really enjoyed being your young and pretty girlfriend, ok?”

His eyes are very blue. Also very wide, unnaturally wide.

“First, the word “pretty” is an insult to your radian beauty.”

She snorts and she blushes and yeah. This is her life now. Her husband-to-be says stuff like this.

“Second, you will always be my young and much-more-than-merely-pretty girlfriend and no marks of aging or stretching or anything could ever diminish that. Least of all ones that result from you giving birth to our daughter. And, bloody hell, if you worry about that, how am _I_ supposed to feel?”

Her hand makes it under two layers of clothing for the delight that is Killian’s bare skin under her fingertips and she leans down to kiss his neck.

“You’re supposed to feel very good and very much like trying a few of these out with that woman who is constantly looking for reasons to get her hands on you.”

“She is a pain.”

She pinches his side.

“Ah-ah! _But_ I supposed I should oblige her.”

“You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m getting the strawberry and vanilla.”

Killian unearths the desired bottle from the pile beside them and helps her to her feet.

“You do realize I’m the worst massage partner one can have, yes?” he asks even as he tugs her toward their bedroom and Emma just frowns up at him in a mix of confusion and offense. “I have just the one very rough hand.”

He slips said hand below the stretchy waistband of her sweatpants and Emma feels anything but deterred.

“For the sake of honesty, I admit nobody else has given me a massage.”

Killian was rather outraged when he first found that out even though it works both ways.

“But, also for the sake of honesty,” she attacks his buttons with a speed that might be unbecoming for a pregnant woman but Emma really can’t bring herself to care. “I should say I’m perfectly satisfied with the arrangement.”

For what it’s worth, Killian doesn’t seem to find anything about her unbecoming as he assists her with the express undressing.

“Not yet. But you will be if I have anything to say about it.”

For the sake of honesty, she should add that nobody has ever touched her as softly as Killian does, as carefully, deliberately, reverently – his hand fitting perfectly around her ankle, along her calves and thighs and in the dip of her spine.

For the sake of honesty, she should add that the only thing she loves more than Killian’s hand on her is her hands on him – running the expanse of his shoulders, connecting all the little dots and marks on his back like a treasure map, her thumbs fitting perfectly in the dimples on his low back as her palms fit over his ass.

For the sake of honesty, she should add that she has never been more certain than she is in the golden afternoon light, with Killian spread out on their bed and their bedroom smelling of strawberry and vanilla, with her ring turning round and round – slippery from all the lotion on her hands, and her daughter making her presence known inside her – she has never been more certain that hers is not one of those lives she longed for and knew she should never have.

It's better.


End file.
